Page 6 of Big Risks

I freeze mid-bite. "She did?"

"Uh-huh. I told her Mommy died when I was a baby and now it's just us. And she got a sad look and said she was sorry, and that she bet you were a really good dad." Olivia reaches for her chocolate milk. "I told her you were the best, even though you don't let me have pineapple on pizza."

I don't know how to respond to this. The idea that Nurse Hailey and my daughter discussed me and Riley makes me deeply uncomfortable.

"She shouldn't have asked you personal questions," I say finally.

Olivia shrugs. "She was just being nice. Like when she showed me pictures of her mom’s cat. His name is Pickle, and he has extra toes on his paws.

That's special," I say absently.

Then I signal for the check, as I’m suddenly eager to leave. "Finish your milk, kiddo. It's getting late."

On the drive home, with Olivia half-asleep in the back seat, I try to place why Nurse Hailey seemed familiar. Canada. Something about that tugs at my memory, but I can't quite grasp it. I knew a girl from Canada once, back in college, but that was—

The realization hits me so hard I nearly miss our turn.

Hailey. From Savannah. Blond hair, bright eyes, a laugh that used to make my whole day. Is she really the nurse who took care of me after I was injured on deployment? Even though the entire time I was in the hospital was a blur, something is pulling at me.

No. It has to be a coincidence. Hailey is a common name.

But those eyes. The way she spoke to Olivia. The gentle confidence.

I push the thought away. Even if by some astronomical coincidence it is the same Hailey, it doesn't matter. That chapter of my life closed long ago, sealed with returned letters and years of silence.

Still, as we pull into our driveway, I can't shake the feeling that something significant has shifted in my carefully ordered world. Like the arrival of a storm front, distant but unmistakable, promising change whether I want it or not.

"Can you read two stories tonight?"

I check the time. "One story. It's already past eight."

She pouts but accepts the compromise, selecting a worn copy ofWhere the Wild Things Arefrom her bookshelf. I sit on the edge of her bed, and she curls against me as I read, her eyelids growing heavy by the final page.

"Daddy?" she murmurs as I tuck her in.

"Yeah?"

"Nurse Hailey is pretty. And she smells like cookies."

I swallow hard. "Go to sleep, Liv."

"Do you think she's pretty?"

Kids and their directness. "I didn't notice. Goodnight."

Of course it's a lie. I definitely noticed.

After Olivia falls asleep, I grab a beer from the fridge and sink into my recliner, the only piece of furniture I splurged on when furnishing this house. The TV remains off. Instead, I stare at the closet door across the room, knowing what's inside.

Three beers later, I find myself standing in front of that closet, pulling down a shoebox from the top shelf. I haven't looked at its contents in years. Haven't needed to. Haven't wanted to.

The letters are bundled with a rubber band, all addressed in my handwriting, all stamped with the same red "RETURN TO SENDER" mark. Twelve letters. Twelve rejections. Or rather, twelve non-responses, which is somehow worse.

I don't open them. I know what they say—earnest words from a younger version of myself. A version that believed in second chances, in explaining myself, in grand gestures. A version that died a little with each returned envelope.

I used to reread them constantly, searching for something I missed. These came back unopened. No explanation. No goodbye. Just silence.

My phone buzzes, disrupting the moment. A text from Jace.

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