Page 9 of Truck Hard

Grams gives me one of her stern looks—raised eyebrows, pinched lips—that says don’t argue. “Dear, movin’ is a lot of work. You’re gonna be busy settlin’ in. Let me help.”

“Okay.” I concede. “I appreciate it. That’s very kind.”

“Mom?” Cam’s voice floats down the stairs. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, honey!” I call back, probably too quickly. Grams’s expression turns to longing and she shifts her eyes to the stairs. She has to know. They all do now that Christian and Liam have seen Cam. “I should—”

“Of course, dear.” She hands me the food with a gentle smile. “I’ll let you get back to unpacking. Just... Hannah?”

“Yes?”

Her eyes meet mine, and all I see is love and support. Support I don’t feel like I deserve. “If you need anythin’—anythin’at all—you know where I live.”

“I know.” I force a smile. “Thank you, Grams. Really.”

She nods once and turns to go. I watch her walk away, and memories flood my thoughts to a time when Grams was just as much my family as she is Liam’s family. Back when we were so young. So full of dreams and possibilities. Now here we are, years later, standing worlds apart with a door between us that neither knows how to open.

I carry the food to the kitchen, setting it on the table where the sun streams in through the window. From here, I can see the Mutter property sprawling at the edge of the road—the auto shop, the big house where Liam lives with his brothers and Grams, the barn they converted into extra living space, the farmland that sprawls for acres behind them.

So close. Too close.

But as I stand there, watching the afternoon light paint shadows across my broken-down kitchen, I realize something. This house might be falling apart, but it’s still standing. Still has good bones, as my dad used to say. Maybe that’s all any of us need—a solid foundation and the courage to rebuild.

Footsteps on the stairs tell me Cam’s coming down. I quickly wipe my eyes and turn to face whatever new challenge this day brings. Because that’s what mothers do. We keep going. We stay strong.

We rebuild.

Even if we have to do it one broken piece at a time.

“Mom?” Cam appears in the doorway, eyes immediately going to the containers. “What’s that?”

I manage a genuine smile. “That, my boy, is dinner. How does a home cooked meal sound?”

His answering grin is like sunshine breaking through the clouds. For a moment, he looks like the little boy he used to be, before Charlie’s rages taught him to be afraid. Before he had to grow up too fast.

“It smells delicious.”

“That it does.” I laugh. “Come on, help me look through these boxes for the dishes.”

As we search through our belongings, I try not to think about who lives just down the road. Try not to remember all the times we made shared meals in this very kitchen, stealing kisses between bites.

Try not to wonder if, when he looks at Cam, he’ll see what I see every day—echoes of himself in our son’s smile.

But those are thoughts for another time. Right now, I have a boy to feed and a house to fix and a life to rebuild.

One piece at a time.

I can do this.

I have to. For my son.

The bellabove Frank’s door jingles as I step inside, a sound so achingly familiar it transports me back to simpler times. Back when life was measured in ice cream scoops and stolen kisses behind the shop, not in court dates and protective orders.

“Hannah Baumann! As I live and breathe!” Frank’s booming voice fills the small seating area, drawing curious glances from the handful of late lunch customers waiting for their orders. Despite my nerves, I smile at the use of my maiden name.

Frank’s doesn’t have an inside dining area. It’s a simple set-up—order at the window, take your food to-go or sit outside at one of the picnic tables if the weather’s nice.

He emerges from behind the counter, arms spread wide, that same warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Time has silvered his hair completely now, but otherwise he looks exactly as I remember—down to the “Frank’s Frosty Kreme” embroidered on his white apron.

---