Page 33 of Truck Hard

I stand, my knee protesting the movement. “Yeah, of course.” But I can’t let them walk away, not without asking. “Could I... would it be okay if I saw you both again? Maybe we could talk?”

Hannah’s eyes soften. She looks down at Cam, leaving the decision to him.

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods. “Yeah. I guess that’d be okay.”

Relief floods through me, making my knees weak. “Thank you.”

I watch them walk away, Hannah’s arm still around Cam’s shoulders. They look small against the massive courthouse doors, but strong too. Survivors.

My family. The thought rises unbidden, full of hope and fear and possibility. Maybe this time I can get it right. Maybe this time I can be the man they deserve.

The holding room doors burst open behind me, and Charlie’s voice rings out one last time as the bailiffs drag him past. “This isn’t over! You hear me? This isn’t fucking over!”

I turn slowly, meeting his hate-filled gaze. He sees me and his face contorts with rage. “You! This is your fault Mutter! You think you can take my family? You’ll pay for this! I won’t rest until—”

The bailiffs haul him around a corner, his threats echoing off marble walls. But the look in his eyes lingers in my mind. A promise of violence to come.

Let him try. My hands curl into fists. This time, I won’t run. This time, I’ll protect what’s mine.

I walk out of the courthouse into bright spring sunshine. The world looks different somehow—sharper, more real. Like I’m truly awake for the first time in years.

I slide behind the wheel of my truck, the familiar smell of leather and motor oil filling my lungs. I turn toward home. Toward my family.

Toward whatever comes next.

Charlie’s threats echo in my mind as I drive, mixing with memories of Hannah’s scars and Cam’s tears. The road ahead won’t be easy. There’s so much damage to repair, so many wounds to heal.

But for the first time in thirteen years, I feel hope. Real, tangible hope that blooms in my chest like the spring flowers dotting the roadside.

This time will be different. I promise silently.This time, I’ll get it right.

The sun sits high on the horizon as I pull into the shop’s driveway, painting the world in shades of gold and shadow. A perfect metaphor for the day—light and dark, victory and threat, endings and beginnings all wrapped together.

I step out of the truck, keys jingling in my hand, and look toward Hannah’s parents’ old house just down the road. A light glows in an upstairs window—Cam’s room, probably.

My son. The thought doesn’t hurt quite as much this time. Instead, it fills me with determination.

Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.

This time, I won’t let them down.

And if I do it right, I just might get the family I always wanted.

The door creaksas I step out onto the back porch, beer bottle cold against my palm. Inside, the homestead sits quiet—too quiet for a house usually bursting with the chaos of seven brothers. But after today’s court hearing, I need this stillness.

The spring air holds a hint of summer’s promise, carrying the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and blooming wildflowers from the fields beyond our property. Chase has worked the farm and this year’s crops are already starting to sprout. Before long there’ll be corn stalks for as far as the eye can see.

Stars pierce the darkness overhead, countless pinpricks of light scattered across the velvet sky. My gaze drifts to the oldporch swing where a familiar figure sits, her silver hair catching the moonlight.

“Beautiful night,” Grams says, patting the space beside her. Steam rises from the cup of tea cradled in her weathered hands. “Join me?”

I settle onto the swing, the aged wood groaning beneath my weight. The gentle back-and-forth motion soothes something raw inside me, like it did when I was a kid seeking refuge from the world. Back then, Grams would find me here after Dad’s disappointments or the endless fights between my brothers.

We sit in companionable silence, listening to the crickets and watching fireflies dance across the yard. But I know this kind of quiet with Grams. It’s the calm before one of her stories or lectures—the ones that somehow always cut straight to the heart of whatever’s eating at me.

“Your granddad loved nights like this,” she finally says, her southern Ohio accent thickening with memory. “He’d sit right where you are now, plannin’ the next day’s work at the shop.” She takes a sip of tea, her eyes far away. “He would’ve been so proud to see what you’ve done with it.”

I take a long pull from my beer, letting the cold liquid wash down my throat. “The shop was dying when he passed. Couldn’t let that happen.”

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