Chapter 2: Accusations and Ashes

That day was an ordinary late-summer Saturday.

Sunlight spilled through the blinds, painting gold stripes on the kitchen floor. The air was thick with the smell of frying eggs and toast, the drone of a mower somewhere outside. You could feel the lazy weekend energy in every corner.

Ben Greene had worked late the night before and slept in, only making it to breakfast at 10 a.m.

He shuffled out in an old Mariners tee and plaid pajama pants, eyes half-shut, hair wild. He greeted Maddie and me with a crooked grin, mumbling about late-night contracts and needing a gallon of coffee to survive.

At 10:05, Maddie pestered me for the eighth time to go downstairs.

She tugged on my sleeve, bouncing with that nuclear five-year-old energy. “Mom, the slide’s screaming for me! You gotta let me go, pleeeease!”

As I crouched by the door tying Maddie’s sneakers, she shook her head and made faces at her dad.

Her tongue stuck out, nose scrunched, all sass and sunshine. Ponytail bobbing, she teased Ben, her sneakers thudding on the mat.

"Daddy, you lazybones, the sun’s already up and you’re still in bed. Daddy, shame on you!"

She waggled her finger, channeling her favorite cartoon characters. Her voice was half-serious, half-laughing.

Ben let out a muffled laugh and copied her, making the same face.

He stuck his tongue out right back, crossing his eyes for effect. The kitchen rang with their laughter—the kind that made everything else fade away.

"Maddie, you little rascal, always roping Mommy into playtime. Maddie, shame on you too!"

He waggled his own finger, mock-stern, before cracking up again. That easy laugh always got me, no matter what.

I grabbed the water bottle and some tissues, and as I opened the door, I suddenly remembered something and turned back to remind him:

"Babe, Maddie’s gonna be a sweaty mess again. Start the bath early so she can wash up as soon as we get back."

I held the door with my hip, voice raised over Maddie’s chatter. Just another piece of our everyday dance.

The bathtub fills slow—it always takes twenty minutes.

We’d grumbled about the ancient plumbing when we moved in, promising to replace the tub one day. We never did—like so many things.

Ben held a piece of toast in one hand and saluted with two fingers at his temple.

"Don’t worry, honey. I’ll handle it."

He winked, crinkling his eyes. He could make any chore sound like an adventure.

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Let’s go."

Maddie grabbed my hand, pulling me out the door with more force than a five-year-old should have. I glanced back once, catching Ben’s smile as he bit into his toast.

The slide was right downstairs, the playground the busiest spot in the complex. Kids ran wild, and parents gathered in chatty clusters.

There were bikes tossed on the grass, a dad flipping burgers on his balcony, the air heavy with sunscreen and hot plastic. It was suburban chaos, American-style.

After a while, I realized I’d left my phone at home. I turned to ask Kelsey’s mom for the time, my heart skipping—no phone meant no texts, no camera.

"What time is it? I left my phone at home."

Kelsey’s mom whipped out her new foldable phone and flashed it around like it was made of gold.

"10:40."

She grinned, letting the number hang in the air, as if her phone had just solved world hunger.

Just then, the bathroom window above us creaked open.

A gust of warm air swept down as Ben stuck his head out, hair still messy, face half in shadow. I could see the little scar above his eyebrow from that old bike accident.

"Hey, the water’s running. Play a little longer before you come up."

I flashed an OK sign, our silent code. Maddie shot me a grin and launched herself down the slide again.

Ben waved awkwardly at the moms and closed the window.

He gave a shy little half-salute and ducked out of sight. He never liked being the center of attention, but he tried.

The moms sighed.

"Wish my guy could remember to pick up his socks, let alone cook dinner. Ben’s like a unicorn. Seriously, how’d you land him?"

Another mom elbowed me. "A lawyer like Ben probably makes a fortune. Maddie’s mom, you could be a full-time mom forever."

"What’s your secret? You two are still so in love. Like that time with the car accident—he really risked his life for you."

The group fell silent, glancing at me. The moment hung heavy—my grief something they could measure, or maybe envy.

There was a pause, then someone fidgeted with her sunglasses.

Half a year ago, Ben and I were rear-ended by a semi while buying plants. The car flipped, flames bursting out instantly.

I still feel the jolt—the sickening twist of metal, the glass everywhere. Sirens blared, and someone in a Browns jersey was already dialing 911 from the median.

Ben’s side faced up and he was quickly pulled out, but I was trapped, unable to move.

I remember people shouting, light flickering through the cracks, my arms aching as I tried to free myself. Panic pounded in my chest, sharper than any pain.

As the fire grew, everyone started to back away, but Ben kept trying to pull me out, his hands bloody, yelling, "Save my wife, please save her!"

His voice was raw, desperate, rising above the chaos. I could barely see his face, but I felt his hands, sticky with blood, refusing to let go.

Less than five seconds after he managed to drag me out, the car exploded.

The blast knocked us both flat. For a heartbeat, I thought we’d both been lost, but then Ben’s arms closed around me, and everything else faded away.

Someone recorded it and posted the video on Instagram. It went viral. Strangers sent messages, news vans camped outside, old classmates reappeared. People said I must’ve saved the world in my last life to have a husband like him.

Thinking of that day, my eyes burned. I blinked, hoping no one noticed. Sometimes the memories crashed over me, sharp and sudden as a slap.

Ben was gentle and easygoing, but in that moment, he was pure courage.

Doctors called him a hero. Even Maddie drew him with a superhero cape, his scars bright red. He’d just shrug, but I knew it meant something.

Later, two fingers on his right hand were so badly injured he couldn’t do fine work anymore. I cried my heart out.

It killed him that he couldn’t tie Maddie’s shoes or chop veggies neatly. I’d catch him staring at his hand, jaw tight, but he’d ruffle my hair and tell me to stop worrying.

He patted my head and smiled:

"It’s okay. I make my living with my brain anyway. Even if I lose two more fingers, I’ll still take care of you."

He could always make me laugh through the tears.

Right now,

I nodded honestly among the moms’ sighs.

"Yeah, he really is a perfect husband."

And as the words left my lips, I felt that stubborn, beautiful ache—missing him, even when he was so close.