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We were.

Now it rests there, pristine, behind glass that doesn’t distort or glare.

John deserves better than a trash bin or a cracked case, and Kammie deserves to see his father treated with reverence.

On the shelf beside it now sit two Purple Hearts. John’s on the left, mine on the right, the flag between us.

Mine lived in a drawer for years, because I never cared about displaying it. Looking at it reminded me that a better man died while I only lost an arm.

But Kamden found mine.

He held it in both hands like a wounded bird, looked at me, then at his dad’s medal already on the shelf. “Can they go together?” he asked, voice so small.

So now they do.

Photographs in simple black frames surround them. John and me in uniform, both looking too fucking young. John sitting on the hood of a vehicle somewhere overseas, flipping off whoever held the camera. Me asleep with my mouth open while John decided that deserved permanent documentation. One of John back home holding up both hands with blue-painted fingernails and an expression of theatrical misery.

That one might be my favorite.

On the back, in his familiar scrawl—

Princess says blue brings out my eyes. He’s full of shit.

Kamden cried when he saw it. Then laughed through the tears until he was hiccupping. Then cried all over again.

We placed it right beside the newer photos—one of him at his sewing machine, glancing back with pretend irritation because I interrupted his flow; another from two nights ago, him asleep on the couch with Rabbit smashed under his cheek, pacifier still tucked between his lips.

The shelf shouldn’t work.

Military honors beside glitter-frame domesticity, dead men beside new beginnings, war photographs next to a boy in bunny slippers. But somehow, it makes more sense than anything ever has.

Because John is here.

Not literally—I’m not losing my fucking mind. Mostly.

But for the first time since Iraq, remembering him doesn’t feel exclusively like touching a bruise. Sometimes now, it feels like sunlight on the back of my neck.

He’d like this house, I think.

He’d absolutely make fun of me. That goes without saying.

He’d walk in, see the pastel blanket, the crayons, the sewing machine, the pink slippers, and probably ask whether somebody replaced me with a goddamn suburban dad while he wasn’t looking.

But then he’d see Kamden, and nothing else would fucking matter.

I’m standing in the kitchen, reminiscing, my coffee growing cold between my hands, and I realize I’m fucking happy.

I’m happy.

Not satisfied, not relieved, or temporarily entertained.

Happy.

I’ve been content before. Had good nights, good jobs, good sex. I’ve made enough money to be comfortable. Even made a few friends, if you want to call it that.

But happiness always seemed like one of those concepts other people described with too much confidence—something too big to fit inside a single life, and too bright to last longer than a few hours at a time.

Now I wake up, and Kamden is stealing half my pillow.