Chapter 4: What Remains

Our house was quieter, the air heavy with all the words we didn’t say. Dad’s face grew more lined, his voice softer, as if he was afraid to break what little was left.

He’d kneel down, tuck the pouch over my head, and remind me to share with the kittens. The animal shelter was noisy and smelled like cedar chips and hope—a good place for a lonely kid to hide out.

I’d see his figure at the gate, shoulders slumped, but his smile always there for me. Riding high on his back, I could almost believe things were okay, that Mom might be waiting at home with dinner on the stove.

Neighbors would nod at us, say, "There goes the Jenkins boy and his dad, same as always." But only we knew the truth.

At night, I heard him pacing the floor, whispering prayers or curses to the ceiling. Grief eats at you slow, like termites in the walls.

He picked up shifts at the community center, mopped the gym floor after Little League, anything to keep his hands busy.

I told him straight: "You can’t just forget. Some things you carry with you forever."

It was a picture I clung to—a triumphant return, Dad standing tall, the pain behind his eyes gone at last. I replayed it in my mind, wishing it into existence.

Instead of Dad, it was a small package waiting on the porch, no note, just his old keychain inside.

It was frayed, the fabric faded from sun and sweat, the stitching loose in spots where Dad had fidgeted with it during long drives. Mom’s handiwork was unmistakable—a tiny heart embroidered near the clasp.

He wouldn’t look me in the eye, his voice thick. The mention of a white dove made the hairs on my arms stand up—like it was a sign from a world just beyond ours.

I felt hollowed out, like my insides had been scooped away. My hands were steady, my voice flat.

I needed someone to blame, someone to explain how someone as tough as Dad could just vanish.

He talked and talked, about war and fate, about how sometimes being the best isn’t enough. His words washed over me, barely sinking in.

Uncle Rick’s voice broke a little: "Up there, everyone’s just a cog in the machine. Even your dad."

No medals, no headlines. Just another face in the crowd, forgotten as soon as the dust settled.

We were nothing to them—just tiny lives flickering for a moment and then gone.

Each item was a piece of him—a worn wallet with faded baseball cards, a packet of chewing gum, a Polaroid of us at the state fair.

I stuffed them into the duffel, hands shaking just a bit. It felt like packing up my whole life.

He blocked the door, his arms wide. "Bailey, you can’t just leave."

His words were gentle, but there was fear in his eyes. He wanted to keep me safe, keep the last piece of his friend’s family close.

Back then, I trusted the grown-ups to know best, to keep me sheltered from the world’s cruelty.

Loss has a way of stripping away your innocence. I saw through the cracks—knew that comfort always came with a cost.

There were only so many jobs, so much kindness to go around. Even the church pantry sometimes ran out.

I didn’t want to be the kid everyone whispered about, the one who took without giving back. Pride, maybe. Or just stubbornness.

He’d go hungry before he let me starve. That wasn’t fair to him.

I lied with a straight face, needing to go, needing him to let me go. It was the only way I could leave without breaking his heart.