Page 43 of Truck Hard

Confrontation at Dawn

Hannah

Dawn’s first light creeps through my kitchen window, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum floor. The coffee maker gurgles and sputters, filling the air with its rich aroma, but even that familiar comfort can’t ease the knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. My hands shake slightly as I grip the counter, trying to ground myself in this moment, in this space that’s supposed to be my sanctuary.

Charlie is out.

The thought hits me again, making my breath catch. His parents used their money and political connections—something I’d feared they would do all along—to get him released early.

Our divorce is still fresh. I’ve only received one child support and alimony payment from him and he’s already free. The monster I thought was safely caged is now free to stalk the streets again.

I close my eyes, fighting back the wave of panic threatening to overwhelm me.

God, please let him obey the restraining order.

The morning sunlight feels too harsh, too exposing, like it’s stripping away all my carefully constructed defenses. Everyshadow could be him. Every unexpected sound makes my heart race. I hate how afraid he makes me.

The coffee maker beeps, startling me so badly I jump.Get it together, Hannah. This is my home now. My safe space. Charlie can’t hurt me here.

But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. Charlie could hurt me anywhere. He’s proven that time and time again.

My gaze drifts to the window above the sink. The view outside is deceptively peaceful—early morning fog rolling over the hills, the first hints of spring bringing color back to the world. But somewhere out there, Charlie is free. Planning. Plotting. Waiting for his chance to remind me that I was never truly free of him.

The sound of movement upstairs pulls me from my dark thoughts. Cam. My anchor in all this chaos. My reason for staying strong when every instinct screams at me to run and hide.

I force myself to take deep breaths, to push down the fear and anxiety. Cam doesn’t need to see me like this. He’s carried too much of my burden already, been forced to grow up too fast because of Charlie’s abuse. He deserves some normalcy, even if it’s just the illusion of it.

The stairs creak as Cam descends, each footstep echoing in the quiet house. I plaster on what I hope is a convincing smile and turn to face him.

“Morning, Mom.” He’s still in his pajamas, hair sticking up in all directions. For a moment, he looks so young, so innocent—exactly how a twelve-year-old should look. Not like the fierce protector he’s been forced to become.

“Morning, sweetie.” I’m proud that my voice comes out steady, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside me. “Sleep well?”

He shrugs, sliding onto one of the mismatched chairs at our small kitchen table. “Yeah, I guess.” His eyes meet mine, too knowing, too understanding for someone his age. “Did you?”

No. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, jumping at every sound, imagining Charlie’s footsteps on the porch. But I can’t tell Cam that.

“Well enough.” I lie, turning back to the coffee maker. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” There’s a hint of his old enthusiasm in his voice, and it makes my heart ache with both joy and sadness. These moments of normalcy feel precious, fragile—like soap bubbles that could burst at the slightest touch.

I open the fridge, surveying our options. “How about eggs and bacon? We could make a proper breakfast for once.”

“Really?” The excitement in his voice makes me smile. In our old life with Charlie, breakfast was a tense affair when it happened at all. Usually just cereal eaten in silence, trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

“Really.” I pull out the eggs and bacon, setting them on the counter. “Want to help?”

He’s already up and moving toward me, and for a moment I see the little boy he used to be—eager to help, always wanting to be where I was. Before Charlie’s abuse taught him to be wary, to stay quiet and small.

“Can I crack the eggs?” he asks, washing his hands at the sink.

“Sure.” I hand him a bowl. “Just be careful of shells.”

He takes the task seriously, tongue poking out in concentration as he taps each egg against the bowl’s rim. The familiar domestic scene makes my throat tight with emotion. This is what we should have had all along—simple moments of joy, of mother and son just being together without fear shadowing every interaction.

The bacon sizzles as I lay it in the pan, filling the kitchen with its mouth-watering aroma. Cam finishes with the eggs and I show him how to whisk them properly, adding a splash of water and a pinch of salt.

“Like this?” He whisks vigorously, sending small droplets flying.

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