Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Anna
The days passed slowly.
Anna felt each one stretching longer than the last, like time itself had grown thick and heavy.
She was driving herself crazy, pacing more than normal, unable to sleep, and that was causing her anxiety to get worse on the regular.
The silence from overseas was the worst part—no new updates, no reassuring voice on the line, no word from Luke.
She went to the beach every morning like normal, and every morning she stared at her phone, willing her husband to call and tell her it was all a misunderstanding, but he hadn’t yet.
Every hour that passed without news gnawed deeper into the pit of her stomach.
She told herself again and again that no news was good news, that the military would contact her first if something truly terrible had happened.
But the words felt hollow by day three, and now, almost a week later, they echoed uselessly in her chest.
The other families from the Air Force base reached out, too.
Some were stationed across the country now, scattered like leaves in the wind, but their messages came anyway.
Long voice notes, thoughtful texts, and cards that arrived in the mail, decorated with stickers and handprints from their own children.
Anna read them all, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
These women knew. They understood the ache, the fear, the slow bleed of waiting.
Sometimes, she wished she were back on base, surrounded by those who spoke this silent language. But they weren’t there. Not this time. So she clung to the small community that had built itself around her.
The scent of baked bread and roasted chicken drifted through the open kitchen window, mixing with the salt air that rolled off the water.
Anna stood at the sink, her hands motionless beneath the warm stream, watching as a car pulled away from the driveway.
Another casserole. Another family she didn’t know well, but who’d signed up for the meal train organized by members of the town and a handful of churches—Grace Episcopal, the Federated Church, even the Unitarian Universalists.
Each night, someone else showed up with warm food and soft eyes, speaking in the gentle tones people reserved for the grieving.
Earlier that afternoon, a small group of women—mothers and wives, strong in their quiet way—had driven down from Boston.
Gold Star Families, they said, introducing themselves one by one at her doorstep.
They had lost sons, husbands. Some still had their loved ones and had gone through the same hell of missing in action that Anna was enduring right now.
They sat with her in the living room, held her hand, prayed over her.
One of them, a woman named Evelyn with silver hair and steady eyes, stayed a little longer after the others had left, squeezing Anna’s hand and saying, “We carry it together now.”
Anna nodded, thankful, deeply moved. She truly was grateful—grateful for the food, the prayers, the cards tucked under her doormat with scripture and poems written in delicate cursive.
But as she stood there, water still running, she felt the same ache deep in her chest. No kindness, no casserole, no circle of prayer could reach the part of her that was still waiting for news, for a miracle, for him.
Her heart still hurt—a piece was missing. And she feared it always would.
The outpouring of love and support was great, but it did little to ease the fear that was gnawing at her heart.
She tried to keep it together, especially for the kids.
They didn’t need to see her unravel. They needed their mother to be steady, safe, the anchor in the storm that had descended on their home.
So, Anna smiled when she could, laughed when she had the strength, and nodded patiently through endless questions about when Daddy would be home.
But there were moments when she drifted. When she stared too long out the window or forgot what she was saying mid-sentence. The weight of the not-knowing curled itself around her like smoke, seeping into everything.
Tom and Margot noticed. So did Lily.
They stepped in with gentle grace. Tom took over the twins’ reading sessions, letting Nora sit as close as possible while Blaze sprawled on the floor in front of him, both children clinging to the stories that reminded them of bedtime with their dad.
Margot made meals that were hearty and warm, the kind that filled the house with familiar smells and gave Anna one less thing to worry about.
And her mother folded into the rhythm of their days like she’d never left.
She did laundry, brushed tangles from Nora’s hair, and sat on the back porch with Anna in the evenings, offering no solutions, just presence.
More than once, Anna felt a hand settle on her shoulder when her mind had drifted too far. A soft, grounding touch. It was always one of them, wordless and steady, pulling her back.
The twins helped in their own way. They were drawing pictures daily, covering the dining room table in crayon and marker explosions. Each picture was addressed to Daddy, full of rainbows and tanks and smiling stick figures.
“This is me and Daddy at the beach,” Nora explained one morning, holding up her picture for Tom to see. Luke had enormous arms in the drawing, thick enough to rival a superhero’s.
“He’s strong,” Nora added proudly. “He carries both of us at once. Even when we’re wet.”
Blaze nodded solemnly. “He doesn’t even drop us. Not even one time.”
Tom chuckled, crouching down beside them. “That’s because your dad’s got arms like tree trunks.”
Nora giggled. “And he runs fast, too. He chased us in the sand and he let us win.”
Anna had stood in the doorway, hand over her heart, her eyes misting as she listened.
Luke had always been like that. Strong but gentle, playful but attentive.
He made parenting look easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe for him, it was. He loved their children with a fierce, steady devotion that had never once wavered.
She remembered the morning before his last deployment.
He’d woken the twins up early, dressed them in pajamas and slippers, and carried them to the backyard wrapped in blankets.
The stars were still out, the sky just starting to gray with morning.
He’d lain on the lawn with one on each side, pointing out constellations, telling them how he would see those same stars even when he was far away.
“Whenever you miss me,” he’d said, his voice quiet in the dark, “look up. I’ll be looking, too.”
Anna had watched from the window, tears in her eyes even then, knowing how much love he packed into every goodbye.
Later that night, when the twins were asleep and the house was still, Anna curled into Luke’s chest, memorizing the rhythm of his heart.
“You always know what to say,” she’d whispered.
He kissed her hair. “That’s because I’m always thinking about you.”
Those memories were both balm and blade now.
She spent long moments with the kids, letting them tell their stories about their father, their voices full of joy and pride. Blaze announced that his dad could probably lift a whole car if he needed to.
“He showed me his muscles,” he added seriously, flexing a small arm. “I’m getting muscles too.”
Anna smiled, ruffling his hair. “You are, sweetheart. Just like Daddy.”
Each story, each drawing, each memory kept Luke close, even when he felt so far away.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the backyard in gold, Nora climbed up next to Anna on the porch swing. She held a picture she’d drawn that day: their family holding hands, standing under a sky full of stars.
“Do you think Daddy can see this picture from where he is?” she asked.
Anna kissed the top of her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I think he can feel it, baby. I think he knows how much you love him.”
“I want him to come home soon.”
“Me too.”
The swing creaked gently beneath them, the twilight air cool and still. Lily came out a few minutes later with a blanket, wrapping it around them both without saying a word. She sat beside them, folding Anna into her side.
They stayed like that until the stars came out.
Anna would wait. As long as it took. But she would keep Luke close, in stories and drawings and the fierce, unwavering love that tethered them all.
And maybe, somewhere under the same sky, he would feel it.
She believed he would. She had faith that he would be home with her soon. She didn’t know how or why she believed it so wholeheartedly, but she did. This wasn’t the end of their story; it couldn’t be.