Chapter 10 - THE THINGS REBECCA NEVER KNEWCaleb’s returned personal laptop remained unopened for nearly three years.
Rebecca knew password.
It was not romantic.
BENNETT1989!
Caleb reused passwords despite everyone warning.
Rebecca finally opened laptop because Noah asked whether there were more videos.
There were.
Caleb reading bedtime story from hotel room.
Caleb singing terribly.
Caleb whispering because roommate asleep.
Rebecca watched one where Noah, age eighteen months, pressed face to tablet screen and yelled:
“DADA!”
Caleb cried after call ended.
Rebecca had never seen that part.
He forgot recording was still running.
He rubbed face and whispered:
“Shit.”
Then laughed at himself.
Rebecca covered mouth.
The laptop also contained drafts.
Emails never sent.
One:
Rebecca, sometimes I stay late because calling home reminds me how much I’m missing. Then staying late means I miss more. Very intelligent system.
Another:
I’m jealous you know Noah’s routines better. That’s insane because you know them because I’m gone.
Another:
I don’t know how to come home without feeling like a guest. I hate that you can calm him faster than me and then hate myself for resenting you.
Rebecca cried.
She had envied Caleb’s freedom.
He envied her closeness.
They had each mistaken the other’s burden for privilege.
Draft to friend:
Rebecca thinks military wins every argument because I can always say mission. She isn’t wrong.
That hurt.
Self-awareness had arrived.
He did not get time to act fully.
Search history:
family therapists.
Pennsylvania preschools.
houses.
commute times.
One house in a small town outside proposed training assignment.
Three bedrooms.
Red brick.
Small yard.
Rebecca stared.
He had bookmarked.
She drove there next day.
Why?
No reason.
The house belonged to another family.
A bicycle lay driveway.
Wind chimes moved.
Rebecca parked across street for three minutes.
She imagined:
Caleb mowing lawn.
Noah chalk driveway.
Her complaining kitchen too small.
A life that never existed.
She almost rang bell just to say her dead husband once considered buying.
Then stopped.
Those people owed nothing.
She drove home.
At dinner Noah spilled milk.
Rebecca snapped:
“Noah!”
He froze.
She saw fear.
Immediately:
“I’m sorry.”
He looked.
“You yelled.”
“Yes.”
“I was frustrated.”
“You didn’t deserve that much.”
“Dad yelled?”
“Yes.”
“Colonel?”
“Probably.”
“Grandma?”
Rebecca laughed.
“Definitely.”
Noah smiled.
No perfect adults.
Rebecca returned to therapy.
Grief had become functional enough people assumed healed.
But anger from reopened investigation leaked.
She told therapist:
“I feel like Caleb keeps dying in new ways.”
The therapist nodded.
“Because your story of death keeps changing.”
“Yes.”
“What remains?”
“He loved us.”
“He died.”
“I’m alive.”
“Noah is alive.”
“Start there.”
Rebecca began seeing Aaron outside support group.
Coffee first.
Then dinner.
No kissing.
She still felt disloyal.
Aaron said:
“I’m not competing with dead man.”
“I know.”
“But you are making me compete.”
She looked.
He was right.
She was comparing:
Caleb laughed louder.
Caleb hated olives.
Caleb would order steak.
Aaron was not replacement.
She stopped dating briefly.
Then chose resume months later because she wanted, not because Caleb’s letter permitted.
When she told Noah:
“Aaron and I go on dates.”
Noah’s face changed.
“Like Dad?”
“No.”
“Are you marrying?”
“No.”
“Will he live?”
“Not now.”
“Will Dad be mad?”
Rebecca’s throat tightened.
“I don’t know what Dad can feel now.”
“But loving Aaron doesn’t mean I stop loving Dad.”
Noah frowned.
“Two?”
“Yes.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
He considered.
“I love Dad and dinosaurs.”
Rebecca laughed.
“Different, but yes.”
May you like
That was enough.
Children often find simplest structure adults complicate.
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