Chapter Sixty Two
Hunter
Traffic crawled, headlights blurring into the dusk as I made my way back to that small apartment that had become my home, with Camille and the kids, after another therapy session.
Months had slipped by. I could still feel the first click of the timer, the therapist’s rooted gaze, the way her questions pressed against the places I wanted to keep hidden.
Three sessions became six, then ten. Each time I walked through that door, it felt a little less like penance and a little more like searching for something I’d lost. Some days, I still bristled, arms crossed, words locked tight behind my teeth.
But each session left its mark, softening the edges, letting a little more light in.
I started to notice the triggers before they swallowed me whole. I learned to breathe through the urge to snap. I learned to anchor myself in the present, instead of letting the past pull me under.
The nightmares still came, and the guilt still weighed on me, but it didn’t crush me. And for the first time in a long time, I started to believe maybe I wasn’t broken beyond repair.
With Camille and the kids, everything felt different when I was there.
Really there. Not halfway, not slipping out the door at the first sign of my own shadows.
I could sit cross-legged on the floor, helping Zeke stack Lego bricks, my mind staying here instead of drifting back to sand and gunfire.
I could lift the twins when they squealed for me, just feeling their small arms around my neck, letting myself love them without questioning if I deserved it.
The therapist taught me grounding: those lists of sights, sounds, touches, smells.
And at first, I thought it was a joke. But the night Zeke knocked over a glass that shattered against the floor, a sharp jolt ran through me: heartbeat thundering, skin prickling, chest tight.
I caught myself counting—couch, window, Zeke’s little hands, Camille’s voice, the smell of dinner—and slowly, I came back.
I didn’t snap, didn’t scare him. And later, when I knelt beside him to help clean up, I apologized, showing him that even grown-ups have hard days, and it was never his fault. That mattered.
In another session, I finally admitted what I’d carried for years: the guilt from my second deployment.
Decisions I made in Afghanistan, although it wasn’t my fault or my order, I could still recite the names of men who never made it home.
I’d told myself their blood was on my hands, and I’d been punishing myself for it without any intention of pardoning myself.
The therapist didn’t argue or try to take it away.
She just asked, “What would you tell a fellow Marine carrying the same weight?” I told her I’d say: he did the best he could with what he had; he wasn’t alone; he was still here, and that mattered.
Then she asked why I couldn’t give myself the same grace.
That question echoed through every session.
I started tracking my stress the way I used to track supplies.
I noticed the tightness in my jaw, the way my shoulders locked, the sharpness in my voice.
Instead of swallowing it down until it boiled over, I learned to step away.
A walk around the block before seeing Camille, or telling her I needed a few minutes to cool off, these became new rituals.
It wasn’t perfect. Some days, the old anger coiled inside me, ready to strike.
The biggest shift? I started to believe I could deserve happiness.
Not because I’d “earned” it through pain, or because I was flawless now.
But because I was showing up, even when it was hard.
With Camille. With the kids. With myself.
And slowly, that consistency started to stitch something new inside me.
When I tucked Zeke in at night, or felt the twins curl against me on the couch, or when Camille leaned into me after a long day, I didn’t feel like an imposter.
I felt like I belonged. For the first time since leaving the Corps, I could look in the mirror and see more than the broken pieces.
I saw a man building a life he wanted to stay in.
Camille kept grinding. Work, school, motherhood, always juggling too much.
I started stepping in where I could. Picking up groceries before she asked.
Taking the kids to the park so she could study in peace.
Sitting with her at the table late at night, quizzing her with flashcards until she leaned into me, half-asleep.
One night, after a long day, she slumped at the kitchen table, laptop open, eyes heavy.
“I can’t do this paper.” I kissed her temple and slid a plate of food in front of her.
“You can. You’ve been doing it every day.
Eat, then write. I’ll keep the kids busy.
” Her tired smile said more than words. She noticed.
It mattered. I didn’t try to win her over with grand gestures.
I leaned into the small things: a note in her bag before work, flowers on the counter just because, making her laugh when the day felt too heavy.
It wasn’t about one big moment. It was about showing up, again and again, in a hundred quiet ways.
For months, I’d lived waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to wake up one day and realize she didn’t need a man with scars and baggage.
But therapy, and time, and showing up shifted something.
The kids didn’t flinch when I raised my voice to call them for dinner.
They didn’t tiptoe like they were waiting for me to leave.
They ran into my arms without hesitation.
Camille leaned on me now, in small ways and big ones, trusting I’d help carry the weight.
I found strength leaning on her, too. She reminded me that healing isn’t something you do alone.
With her, I felt braver facing my past, more hopeful about the future we were building.
We found a balance, each of us reaching out when the other stumbled, building something steady, something genuine.