Eric answers wearing nothing but his boxers, his eyes half asleep at first but when he sees me and my obvious state, he seems to wake up. “What’s wrong?” he rushes out, pulling me inside.

“He didn’t call!”

“What?”

“He said he’d call and he didn’t call. Have you heard anything?”

“Riley!” He grasps my elbows. “Slow down.” Then over his shoulder, he shouts. “Dad! Riley’s here.” He bends down and looks in my eyes—my tear-filled, panicked eyes. “Take a breath, try to calm down. And start again. Please.”

Mal appears down the hall, tying his robe. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

I try to take Eric’s advice.

Breathe. Calm. Speak. “Dylan called last night.” I shake my head quickly. “Not last night, but the night before. And he said he’d call again and he hasn’t. Something happened to him. Did you get a call or—”

“Riley,” Eric cuts me off, grasping my elbows tighter. “Did Dylan say he would definitely call? Or did he say he’d try? Because we can’t make those kinds of promises.”

“I—” I try to think of Dylan’s exact words but nothing comes to mind.

Sydney’s up now, her look of worry matching everyone else’s.

“Sweetheart,” Mal says, coming to me and placing his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure he would’ve called if he could. There are just so many uncertainties over there, it’s impossible…”

Eric releases his hold on me and leans against the wall, his chest rising and falling as he runs his hand through his hair. “So you haven’t heard anything? Official, I mean.”

“No but—”

His dad and he share a look—one of relief.

Sydney asks, “Do you want me to get your mom, Riley?”

I nod, tears releasing with my sob.

“Come on,” Mal says, his hand still on my shoulder as he leads me to the kitchen. He sits me down on a chair and switches on the coffee pot. Then leans against the counter, Eric beside him. They’re looking at me with pity in their eyes and I know what they’re thinking, because I think it too. I’ve just never voiced it. Not until now. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“For what?” Eric asks.

“For this. This military life.”

Silence fills the air as I look down at the table, my tears flowing fast and free. Then, unable to keep it in anymore, I release a truth that even I didn’t want to believe. “I thought I could handle it but I can’t. I wanted to believe so badly that I was strong enough for this but I’m not. I can’t deal with another death and I feel like that’s what I’m waiting for. For someone to knock on my door and tell me that another person I love is dead and I can’t. I just can’t.” I wipe my tears, my words strained as I look up at them. “I love him. I do. You know I do, but—”

The back door opens and my mom appears. She’s in her pajamas, her eyes glassy as she looks over at me, Sydney behind her. “Oh, honey,” she coos. Then she smiles. “You’ve had a bad night, huh?”

I nod, releasing yet another sob.

She lifts the packet of bacon in her hands. “Will this help?”

I nod again, and even though I feel like a child—a sad, heartbroken child—having them here, having them understand—it helps.

In hushed tones, Eric, Sydney and my mom make breakfast while I focus on the table, waiting for my heart to settle.

“Riley?” Mal says, standing on the other side of the table. His voice is low, barely a whisper. “I’d like to show you something, if you don’t mind.”

He leads me down the hallway to his bedroom. I’d never been inside before but I just assumed it would be like Dylan’s—sparse and covered in flannel. So you can imagine my surprise when he opens the door to a beautiful dark timber setting and white cotton sheets with a knitted throw at the end. He must see the shock on my face because he chuckles, low and gruff, just like Dylan. “It helps remind me of Ruby; Dylan’s mother. It’s the only space in the house that has any form of feminine touch.” He sighs. “Twenty-three years she’s been gone and I still can’t find it in myself to change the washing detergent she used. Smells like her, you know?”

It’s the most he’s spoken about her and I wonder why. Out loud. Then kick myself for doing so.

He doesn’t seem to mind though. He just points to a beautiful armchair in the corner of the room and indicates for me to sit while he goes to his closet. “I made the decision early not to talk about her too much around Dylan. I didn’t want him feeling left out if Eric and I speak about our memories of her since he never knew her.”

“I’ve met her,” I tell him, my hands gliding across the fabric of the seat.

From inside his closet, he asks, “Oh, yeah?”

“Dylan took me to meet her right when we started dating.”

“He did, huh?” he responds, walking out with a shoebox. Then he stops in his tracks. “Has he mentioned anything… about us not talking about her too much? Would he like us to?”

I shrug. “To be honest, I think it’s something he thinks about but doesn’t really talk about…”

He nods and continues his path toward me. Then, carefully, he places the shoebox on my lap. “Take a look,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed a couple feet away from me.

I lift the lid. Letters. So many letters addressed to My love, Malvin, but no addresses. I look up at him.

“She wrote me all these letters while I was deployed in Panama. I never knew about them until she passed and I was clearing out the closet to move here.”

I take a calming breath, wondering why he’s telling me all this. Not just telling me, but showing me. “So you’d never read them before then?”

He shakes his head. “She didn’t write them for me, Riley. She wrote them for herself. I guess it helped keep me close and make the distance easier to deal with.”

“And why… I mean, why are you showing me?”

He smiles. “I think there’s a lot you can learn from these letters. If not learn, then at least understand. No one is cut out for this life but we make it work. Because that’s exactly what life is, sweetheart. Work. And in the end, it pays off. I know—I have two amazing boys as proof.”

I spend the rest of the day in Dylan’s bed, surrounded by tissues and letters filled with immeasurable heartache and longing and fear, but also joy and love and excitement and questions of the future. And plans—there were so many plans Ruby Banks made with a man oceans away, doing exactly what Dylan is—helping to provide a life better than the one we know.

Every letter starts the same. She loves him. She misses him.

Some are sad, some are funny, but most of them just spoke about him. About her memories of him which she missed dearly. Memories that reminded me so much of Dylan that I spent most of the time with my hand to my mouth to stop from crying out loud.

There were also a few pictures in the box. Mainly of her taken over the years, even one of her pregnant with Eric going by the date stamp.