Page 83 of Truck Hard

“Then let’s make it official.” He looks between us, pleading. “Please? Can we?”

“We’ll talk to the lawyer tomorrow.” I promise. “Figure out what needs to be done. It might mean we lose the child support but I should still get the alimony.”

I stare at my hands, considering the implications. The extra money would help—God knows I need it with this old house falling apart around us. The floors need replacing, the roof is too old, and half the electrical outlets don’t function. Charlie’s child support would make fixing those things possible.

“I don’t care about his money,” Cam says fiercely. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Sweetie, it’s not that simple.” I trace a scratch on the kitchen table. “That money was meant to help take care of you.”

“But it gives him power over us.” Cam’s voice cracks. “I’d rather eat ramen noodles forever than take another penny from him.”

“You shouldn’t have to make that choice.” My throat tightens. “I should be able to provide for you without his help.”

“You do.” He grabs my hand. “You give me everything important—you love me. The rest is just stuff.”

“He’s right,” Liam says quietly. “Money isn’t worth keeping Charlie in your lives. And you’re not alone anymore. I’ll provide for Cam. Whatever you need, I’ve got you both. We’ll figure out the house repairs together. And lord knows Grams will not let you survive on ramen. She’ll feed you until you’re stuffed beyond reason.”

I look between them—my fierce, protective son and the man who should have been his father all along. Their faces hold the same determined expression, that stubborn set to their jaw that means their minds are made up.

“Okay,” I whisper. “If that’s what you want. I’ll figure out how to make it happen.”

Chapter 19

Building a Future

Liam

The whine of power tools fills the air as I carefully guide the circular saw through another section of rotted baseboard. Sawdust coats my arms and face, but I barely notice anymore. These repairs have become my daily ritual over the past couple of weeks—my way of proving to Hannah that she can count on me. That I’m here to stay.

A particularly stubborn section catches the blade, making the saw buck in my hands. I ease off the trigger, repositioning for a better angle. No rushing this. Every cut, every repair, has to be perfect. Hannah and Cam deserve nothing less.

The thought of them brings an involuntary smile to my face, even through the grime and sweat. It’s been fourteen days since Charlie’s attack, since the moment everything changed. Fourteen days of watching Hannah slowly emerge from her protective shell, like a flower reaching for sunlight after a long winter.

The bruise on her cheek has faded and is hardly noticeable anymore. My injuries have healed as well. While I’ll have scars, they’re no longer red or painful.

Hannah carries herself differently now. Straighter. Prouder. As if finally believing she deserves more than what Charlie gave her.

And Cam… my son. The words still send a thrill through me every time I think them. He’s calling me Dad without hesitation now, the name falling naturally from his lips as if he’s been saying it his whole life. Each time, it hits me like a punch to the heart—equal parts joy and grief for all the years we lost.

The saw whirs back to life as I make the final cut. The section of baseboard falls away, revealing water damage underneath from where a pipe leaked for years. Another item on the endless list of repairs this old house needs. But I don’t mind. Every splinter removed, every nail driven home, feels like healing—like building something new from the wreckage of the past.

“Need any help?”

The voice startles me. I look up to find Warren leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on his face.

“Thought you were at the shop,” I say, switching off the saw.

He shrugs. “Slow day. Mac’s got it covered. Figured you could use an extra pair of hands.” His eyes scan the room, taking in the scattered tools and materials. “Unless you’re enjoying playing handyman all by yourself.”

There’s a gentle ribbing in his tone that makes me smile despite myself. My relationship with Warren has been complicated since he came back. Years of unresolved tension and hurt feelings create a wall between us that we’re only now starting to dismantle. It’s getting better, but the tension hasn’t completely vanished.

But watching him step fully into the room, already rolling up his sleeves to help, I feel a surge of gratitude. This is what brothers do. Show up when needed, no questions asked. No matter what.

“Actually,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead, “I could use help with these baseboards. Need to get them replaced and clean up this mold.”

Warren nods, already reaching for a pry bar. “Lead the way.”

We work in companionable silence for a while, falling into an easy rhythm. It reminds me of when we were younger, before everything got complicated. Before Dad’s grief and a mountain of responsibility drove wedges between all of us.

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