Page 118 of Made for Wilde

I think about Dad and how close we used to be. After Mom died, it was just the two of us. He taught me to change a tire and balance a checkbook. I taught him to braid hair and fold fitted sheets. We had our own language of inside jokes and shared memories.

I thought nothing could break that.

Tears slide down my cheeks as I press my hand to my belly. I feel the gentle flutter of our daughter’s movements. She’s so active tonight, like she can sense something’s wrong.

My baby girl.

“Me and your daddy are going to fix this,” I whisper to my belly. “I promise.”

I don’t know how. Don’t even know if it’s possible. But I have to try. For her. For all of us.

This little girl deserves to know her grandfather. She deserves better than the mess we’ve made of things.

My hand traces circles on my stomach as her movements gradually settle. The house creaks around us and mountain windwhistles through the pines outside. Koda’s breathing remains deep and even. His body is finally getting the rest it needs to heal.

I close my eyes and try to follow him into sleep, but my mind keeps spinning. Ways to reach Dad. Words that might bridge the gap between us. Some path back to the family we used to be.

It won’t be easy. Might not even be possible.

But as I finally drift off, one thought keeps me going. Love this deep doesn’t just disappear. It has to go somewhere.

And maybe it can find its way back to us.

I wakeup the next morning and reach for Koda, only to find cold emptiness where his warmth should be.

Instantly, my eyes snap open.

Momentary panic grips me until I hear the rhythmic thud from outside.

Thwack. Pause. Thwack. Pause.

The familiar sound of the axe splitting wood pulls me from bed despite my exhaustion from a nearly sleepless night.

I push aside the curtain and squint against the brightness.

Koda is standing outside in the clearing beside our woodpile, shirtless despite the cool mountain air. His back ripples with muscle as he lifts the axe overhead and brings it down in one powerful stroke.

The log splits cleanly and halves fall to either side.

I sigh.

What is he doing? He can barely breathe without wincing, yet here he is, chopping wood like it’s any normal morning.

I throw on Koda’s flannel shirt over my sleep shorts and step onto the porch.

The crisp air raises goosebumps on my bare legs. From here, I can see the full extent of what my father did.

Purple-black bruises map Koda’s torso, stark against his tan skin. The bandage above his eye is spotted with fresh blood. His split lip has reopened, and a thin line of crimson is visible even from where I stand.

Thwack.

Another log falls.

Koda pauses and presses one hand against his ribs. A flash of pain crosses his face before determination replaces it.

My voice carries across the yard. “Koda, you should be resting.”

Koda turns with the axe balanced in his hand. Even with his battered face, he manages a small smile when he sees me.