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We were married quickly—three months after that Christmas, to be exact—and while I’d like to say that our families rejoiced our union, they didn’t.

I hadn’t expected much from my parents, of course.

They hadn’t cared about anything in my life thus far, so why would I expect them to care now when I was getting married?

Still, I had made the unceremonious announcement to them on the front porch the day after Laura and I decided spontaneously to get married, and the most I had gotten from them was an indifferent grunt from my father and a slow, bored blink from my mother.

And I guessed I understood why Laura’s parents would be suspicious …

and they were. She had only just left her husband of five years, only to agree to marry another man a handful of months after the divorce was finalized.

They had treated their daughter like she’d fallen on her head and lost her mind, but—as she’d explained to th em—our love wasn’t new, and after years of separation, neither of us wanted to waste another second being apart.

Anyway, marriage had made sense to us, and I had hoped that it would at the very least make sense to my sisters, Ricky, and Sid. I was desperate for their support, having gotten none from anyone else … but I didn’t get it from them either.

“Listen, I’m happy you’re happy,” Sid had said reluctantly, “but don’t you think this is jumping the gun a little bit? You were together years ago. You were kids back then. You’re adults now, with adult baggage and adult bullshit. How do you even know you’re compatible now?”

“Because I know,” I had replied.

“Fuck, you were hardly compatible back then,” Ricky had added, not helping anything. “You couldn’t commit, and she put up with it for way too long. I’m not sure it’s the smartest thing to rush into it now. What the hell is the hurry anyway?”

It was easy for them to criticize. Both of them had had years under their belts with Lucy and Grace before they even began to talk about marriage.

Hell, Sid had only recently, just after Christmas, bought the ring he had yet to give to Grace.

But they had that kind of time. They had that freedom.

But I didn’t. Not with the current state of my mental health.

I needed Laura. I found my peace with her, the strength to remain sober and the power to continue a life that didn’t want me in it.

They couldn’t understand that, and I didn’t expect them to, but they could’ve been happy for me … and they weren’t .

But nobody—and I mean, nobody —was more unhappy than Laura’s ex-husband, Brett.

Yet, despite all the discouragement and protests from our respective friends and family, we were married. Laura became my wife, and her girls became my stepdaughters, and I hadn’t been prouder of anything since I’d made a name for myself in the Army.

We made a happy little life for ourselves in that beautiful, old colonial.

That first year, Laura suggested I pick up a hobby, and I began to dabble a bit in carpentry and home repair.

The money I would’ve spent on booze was instead spent on freshening up the house and finishing the basement, making a designated playroom for the girls and reclaiming the dining room for its intended purpose—eating.

Despite the initial disapproval from my friends and sisters, that dining room became the place where the six of us spent our Saturday nights playing board games into the early morning hours while Lizzie and Jane slept at their dad’s apartment and Ricky and Lucy’s infant son, Graeme, slept in his portable crib in the living room.

I was no longer a fifth wheel, and our bond as a trio of couples helped to heal my soul nearly as much as my relationship with Laura itself.

Then Christmas rolled around again, and the oddest thing happened.

Dad called one night to formally invite us—Laura, the girls, and me—over for Christmas Eve dinner. He had yet to meet them—not including that moment he’d briefly met Laura in the front yard many years ago—and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted him to. But he insisted .

“Oh, and do you have a picture of you all?” he asked before hanging up. “I’d like to hang it on the living room wall.”

It immediately felt like a trap. A setup. An integral part in his master plan to make my life a perpetuating nightmare. But I told him I did have a picture and that we would be there.

Laura wasn’t thrilled about the arrangements.

She was rightfully worried about the things my dad might say or do in the presence of her daughters.

She was even more rightfully worried about the things he could say to them.

I promised that the moment things turned sideways, we would leave, and I meant it.

But by some extraordinary miracle, it never came to that.

Dad was, as some might put it, a perfect angel.

He spoke kindly to Laura and her daughters.

He welcomed them into his home with open arms. He treated Lizzie and Jane as much like his grandchildren as he did Graeme, showering them with presents and a gentleness I had never seen in him in my entire life.

Mom was even present for a blip of time, coming down for dinner and a short visit afterward before saying she was too tired and needed to get back to bed.

But more astonishing than anything else was the way Dad treated me.

The moment I’d entered the house, he’d assessed me with a critical, almost-curious eye, as if he was granting himself permission to look at me for the first time. I stood, allowing it. My fists balled at my sides, prepared to fight if need be .

Then, he shook my hand, took my coat, and asked if I’d like a drink.

“I don’t drink anymore,” I’d replied.

He looked surprised by this and asked why.

“Because I spent two and a half years drunk, and I don’t want to subject my family to that. I don’t need it anymore,” I’d answered honestly.

He nodded. “It takes a real man to admit his shortcomings,” he’d said.

I wondered momentarily if he’d ever admit his, but I wasn’t going to push my luck by asking.

Later, just as we were leaving, he laid his hand over my shoulder and said, “They’re beautiful, Maxwell. You’re very lucky to be so blessed.”

“Thank you,” I replied, suddenly verklempt because right there, in his eyes, was that look I’d always wanted, always craved.

My father, in this moment, for whatever it was worth, was proud of me. Me!

Oh God, I wanted to cry, scream, dance down the street, sing from the rooftops. I wanted to do everything all at once and then collapse from the relief it brought.

“What does the future hold for you now?”

I shrugged, looking out the door as Laura piled the girls into the car. “Well, this year, I’m going to find a job. That’s number one.”

I’d been living off my pension since being discharged, and combined with Laura’s salary, it was enough to scrape by, but if we wanted anything more out of life—a bigger house, nicer things, family vacations—we needed more money .

“Very good,” Dad replied approvingly. “Any thoughts about more children?”

“We haven’t really talked about it much,” I told him honestly. “We’ve spent the last year settling into being together, the four of us, so having another baby hasn’t really been at the top of the priority list.”

He grunted, nodding curtly. “Understandable. And anyway, there’s still time for that.

But—and I say this as your father”—he stepped in closer to my ear, his hand still on my shoulder—"you do want to think about it. Have that conversation with your wife. You will regret it if you don’t.

You don’t want to spend the rest of your life raising another man’s children.

They’ll never be truly yours. No … you need to have your own. Trust me on that.”

***

Soon after Christmas, I found a job as a night watchman at a cemetery just outside of Salem.

Laura had thought I was insane for taking the position, and she wasn’t sure it would do our relationship any good to be on completely opposite schedules.

But I took it anyway. The pay was good, and the lack of interaction with the outside world was even better.

And it wasn’t that I was incapable of socializing; I just didn’t like to.

I was better in solitude, focusing only on my family.

It left little room for criticism; it left little room to be triggered and sent back to Afghanistan.

On my own, in my house, I could control my environment, but in the outside world, there was little I could do about the things other people did or said .

So, the cemetery made the most sense. It was me, an office, and the dead.

The only other living soul on the grounds at night was Ivan, a guy who looked about as strange and unusual as you’d expect a gravedigger to be, and during the time I was there, he was sleeping in the cottage he lived in, on a hill in the middle of the graveyard.

I quickly learned that I liked the job.

It was more of a visual job, less of one that relied on my hearing.

I sat in my little shack of an office, watched the cameras, and waited for something to happen, but most of the time, it was dead—pun intended.

So, I drank my coffee and read my books.

Just before the sun began to rise, Ivan unlocked the gate for the day, and I was free to get into my truck and watch the sun rise through the windshield as I drove home to my wife and daughters.

I was honestly, truly, unabashedly happy.

I couldn’t remember a time when I could say that and know that I was being sincere with myself.

But I was. I liked my job, I liked my house, but most of all, I loved my wife and the quiet she brought to my otherwise very loud and dangerous mind.

She brought me peace, she brought me love, and I figured, as long as she was in my life, everything was good— I was good—and there was no reason to believe I’d ever not be.