It isn’t mine anymore.
Chapter two
Lance
Usually, the smell of pancakes makes my mouth water. Today, it sickens me to the core.
I’d planned this. The family breakfast we would have on my return. Me in the kitchen, apron on, frying sweet circles of delight while Ainsley laughed and Hannah rolled her eyes.
But the version I’m living isn’t the same as the one I dreamed on the front line. The table’s set—stacked with sauces and fruit—music playing a little too loud. My attempt to wake my household, fill the silence.
The crackling pan steals my attention as I prod at my first try at a satisfactory pancake. I don’t hear her approach. A delicate hand taps my shoulder. I spin before I think. My daughter steps back, startled. The spatula falls from my grip, batter splattering over the tiles.
Months in a warzone will put a man on edge. Even when he comes home, the horrors never leave.
The shock of the day before still hangs heavy, consuming each second. I scoop her into my arms. Twelve or not, she still folds in to me like she’s five again. She squeezes tight enough that I wonder if she’ll glue me back together.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispers against my chest. “When will Mummy be home?”
Hell, Mummy and Daddy, she’s not called us that in a long time. Our names morphed into Mum and Dad years ago, once Hannah considered herself old enough to be too cool. My heart ached when our roles changed, but this morning she’s back to being the little girl I protected from scraped knees and monsters in her closet.
Softly, I ease back so I can see her face. Her eyes are glazed, ready to cry.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. Kids know. Last night, I convinced myself she bought my lie. That she believed my story about her mother having to work. She didn’t get the reunion she deserved.
All the games we played, and the movie we watched, were a smokescreen she saw straight through. Our home is fractured, and she knows it. I crouch down so we’re eye to eye.
“Sweetheart…” My throat burns. I’m going to hurt my daughter. I don’t want to. “Your mum and I have decided to spend some time apart.”
She doesn’t even take a breath. “You’ve been gone eight months.”
That truth hits harder than any bullet. Any disaster I’ve seen unfold. I’ve dug babies out of landslides, but I can’t save my daughter from this.
“What I mean is….”
She wriggles out of my grasp, her eyes landing on the old telephone on the wall. Her small body twists in its direction.
“Hannah, your mother asked me to move out.” My fingers skim her wrist, and she pulls it from me.
“No,” she shrieks. “This is a mistake. I’ll call her.” Her fine fingers yank the phone so hard the cord snaps. She stands, focus darting between the phone in her hand and its base on the wall. The plastic handset sails across the room and explodes when it hits the floor.
She freezes. Then runs. I open my arms, catching her as she collapses. My little girl clings to me as if her life depends on it. Like I’m the last solid thing she has to hold on to.
Hannah is another casualty in my wife’s path. A bollard knocked over to get what she wants. This is happening, whether we want it to or not.
“Open up, ya antisocial bastard.” A voice I can usually hear even over gunfire shouts, as a fist bangs on the front door.
Hannah’s tears dry instantly. She scurries to the door, pulling it open.
“Dog,” she squeals. He lifts her off the ground, spinning her once, before breezing in like he owns the place, complete with hoodie, rucksack, muddy boots and a plastic bag swinging from his wrist.
“Aye, there’s my favorite girl. Hell, you’ve grown. You’re making me feel short.”
“You are short,” she teases.
And just like that, she smiles. Wide, bright, hopeful. Her first proper, genuine smile since yesterday, when she got home from school and realized her mother was gone. The day everything shattered before bedtime.
Dog shoots me a look over her shoulder. A silent question.You alright?The kind he uses when we can’t speak, when the situation is tense, and a bomb is about to blow.