“Actually,” Mary said, the words coming out before she could second-guess them, “I could use help with my boxes of books.”
“I won’t turn down helping you put your favorites in their new home,” he said, grinning.
They moved into the living room, where a box labeled “books” sat waiting to be put on the shelves. He worked, placing the books where she directed. When he uncovered the eight volumes of Anne of Green Gables, he turned to look at her. “You must love these. They look well worn.”
“Not well worn, but well loved!” she protested.
“Tell me why,” he encouraged. “I never found any book that seemed to have touched me like these obviously did for you.”
Mary took one of the volumes from his hands—Anne of Green Gables, the first book. Its cover was faded and the spine creased from countless readings. She held it like something precious, her fingers tracing the familiar outline of the title.
“I first read these when I was eight,” she murmured. “My grandmother gave me the set for my birthday, and I fell completely in love with Anne Shirley. This red-haired orphan girl who refused to let circumstances define her, who saw beauty and possibility everywhere, who turned her struggles into stories and her loneliness into imagination.”
She opened the book, the pages falling naturally to a well-loved passage. “But it wasn’t until after the accident that I truly understood why these books mattered so much to me. Anne faces rejection and hardship. She’s an orphan, and she’s poor, but she doesn’t fit the mold of what people expect. But she never lets any of that diminish who she is. She creates her own joy, finds her own family, and builds a life that matters through sheer force of will and optimism and refusal to give up.”
Mary’s voice grew stronger, more passionate. “When I was in the hospital, when I was learning to use the wheelchair, when I was facing the reality that my life would never be what I’d planned, I reread these books. And Anne reminded me that limitations don’t define you. That you can face hard things and come out on the other side, still believing in beauty and possibility. That having to adapt doesn’t mean having less. It just means having different.”
She looked up at Bert, her eyes bright with emotion. “Anne loses her adoptive father Matthew, faces financial struggles, and gives up her dreams of college to take care of Marilla. But she doesn’t become bitter. She finds new dreams, new ways to make a difference. She teaches school, writes stories, builds deep friendships, and eventually finds love with Gilbert after years of stubbornly refusing to see what was right in front of her.”
Mary hesitated, wondering why she’d let her mouth run away with her passion about the last part. She hoped Bert didn’t feel awkward with her revelation about love with him right in front of her.
Bert's expression softened, and he sat down on the couch beside her wheelchair. “So Anne taught you how to rebuild.”
Releasing a breath, she was relieved that he was still focused on the character she found so inspiring. “She taught me that rebuilding was possible. That you could face devastating loss and still choose joy. That you could adapt to circumstances you never wanted and still create something beautiful. That being different from what you’d planned didn’t mean being less than what you’d hoped.” She held the book close to her chest. “And she taught me that kindred spirits—people who truly see you—are worth waiting for, even when you’re scared to let them in.”
“Kindred spirits,” Bert repeated, testing the phrase. “Is that what we are?”
Mary met his gaze directly, her heart pounding but her voice steady. “Yes, I think we might be.”
Bert reached out and gently took the book from her hands, setting it carefully on the coffee table before taking both her hands in his. “Then I’m grateful to the author who created a character that taught you not to give up. Because if you had, I never would have met you. And meeting you, Mary? That’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a very long time.”
She felt tears prick her eyes, but she was smiling.
He picked up several other leather-bound books, but she quickly realized he had her journals in his hands. He looked at the covers, then lifted his gaze to her. “I think these are personal?”
Letting out a shaky breath, she nodded. “I had a counselor while in rehab. It helped ground me when my emotions were flying all over the place.” She looked down at her legs for a moment. “It was hard… life-changing. And while I was glad to be alive and knew I was luckier than many people, I still had to wrap my mind and emotions around what my new life would look like. She encouraged me to journal. I did, and it helped. I still do it, although not as often.”
He nodded and placed the journals reverently onto the same shelf as the Green Gables books. Finishing the last box of books, he smiled. “This is a good place for you. The house, I mean. It suits you.”
“It feels right,” Mary agreed. “I can finally breathe here, you know? It’s mine in a way the apartment never was.”
Bert leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and looked at her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “What you said earlier, about the accident. I want you to know that I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”
She felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I just did what I had to do.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You did more than that. You could have given up, could have let the injury define you and limit what you tried to do. Instead, you fought your way back and built a new life. That takes incredible strength. And I want you to know that I see it. I see you.”
She nodded, touched by his words but also curious about something she’d noticed. “Can you tell me about your hearing loss? Because the way I see it, you’re also a strong hero.”
Bert’s hand went unconsciously to his left ear, where Mary had noticed the small, flesh-colored hearing aid he wore. For a moment, she thought he might deflect and change the subject the way he sometimes did when conversations got too personal. But then his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he met her gaze directly.
“We were in Mogadishu,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact in the way of someone who’d told the story enough times that the emotion had been smoothed away. “I was a SEAL. We’d just taken care of a high-value target, and made it back to our ready area when the insurgents hit us with a coordinated attack. One of the explosives went off too close… maybe fifteen feet from where I was positioned. The blast wave...” He paused, his jaw tightening. “It ruptured my left eardrum and damaged the cochlea. Partial but permanent hearing loss.”
Mary felt her chest tighten with sympathy. “That must have been devastating.”
“It was the end of my SEAL career,” Bert admitted, and she could hear the old grief beneath the calm exterior. “Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d trained to be was gone in an instant. I couldn’t meet the physical requirements anymore, nor could I operate in the field at the level required for special operations. The hearing loss affects my directional hearing, my ability to distinguish sounds in chaotic environments. In combat situations, that’s a death sentence, not just for me but for anyone on my team.”
“So what did you do?”