Page 147 of Until Joy

We both burst out laughing. The sound filled my empty house with something I'd never had before. Contentment.

“You love them,” she accused, pointing a finger at me. “Don't even try to deny it.”

I picked her up, sat down, then dropped her carefully onto my lap. “Your parents are good people. Thank God they stayed at the same hotel with your brothers.”

“Good people who spent the last six days interrogating you about everything from your financial status to your intentions with their daughter.”

“Let’s get specific. Your mom out and out asked me my credit score.”

Joy giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “She likes you. I can tell because she only asked the really invasive questions once.”

“And your dad likes me because I know the difference between a carburetor and fuel injection.”

“Dad likes you because you look at me like I hung the moon.” Her voice went soft, and those blue eyes of hers turned serious. “But Mom's still appalled that you don't have any real furniture.”

I looked around my living room. One recliner. A couch that I’d pulled in from the deck, and the patio table and chairs. She wasn't wrong.

“Yeah, but she agreed that if you weren't yet up to furniture shopping with me, I couldn't buy any.”

“That was a good save on your part.” Joy stretched, then snuggled closer to me.

“It was, wasn’t it?” I smirked.

My stomach chose that moment to growl. Loud enough to wake the neighbors. Joy's mom had made homemade chicken noodle soup, and the smell had been torturing me for the past hour.

“I'm heating up that soup,” I announced.

“You don't have to cook for me. I can get my own food.”

“You’ll stay put. You've only been out of the hospital for five days.”

I headed for the kitchen, already planning the grilled cheese sandwiches that would go perfectly with Sarah’s soup. The woman could cook. No wonder Joy had such strong opinions about food.

The kitchen felt too quiet without Joy's voice filling it. I pulled out the pot and ladled the soup into it, turning the heat to medium. The smell hit me immediately. Rich broth. Tender chicken. Fresh herbs that reminded me of Sunday dinners from a lifetime ago.

My chest tightened without warning.

Dad used to make grilled cheese and tomato soup when Mom worked late shifts at the hospital. He'd stand at the stove in his uniform, still perfectly pressed despite twelve hours at the base, and flip sandwiches while telling me about his day. Nothing classified. Just the mundane details of life as an Air Force major that made my eight-year-old self feel important.

I hadn't thought about those moments in years.

The butter sizzled as I dropped it into the pan, and I tried to shake off the sudden weight in my chest. I had soup to heat and sandwiches to make. Joy needed feeding, and wallowing in memories wouldn't accomplish that.

But the image stuck. Dad in his blues, sleeves rolled up, humming some old country song while he cooked. He'd taught me that real men took care of their families. That providing comfort was just as important as providing protection.

I flipped the first sandwich and started on the second. Golden brown. Perfect. Dad would approve.

When was the last time I'd talked to him? He'd stopped leaving voicemails after the first year. Stopped sending texts after the second. I'd cut him off so completely he'd probably given up hope of ever hearing from me again.

And why? Because I couldn't face the disappointment in his voice when he learned what had happened in Africa. Because admitting I'd failed my team meant admitting I'd failed everything he'd taught me about leadership and honor.

The soup started bubbling, and I stirred it with more force than necessary.

“Graham?”

I turned to find Joy standing in the kitchen doorway, her head resting against the wall.

“I thought I'd set us up at the table. This smells amazing.”