Page 94 of My Fixation

“My parents were in their forties when they had me.” Jaxon’s voice is quiet, like he’s reading someone else’s story instead of his own. “I don’t know if they were trying to have a kid or if I was an accident.”

I don’t interrupt. He needs to get the words out.

“They were both only children, and both sets of grandparents were already gone by then.” He draws in a slow, shaky breath. The kind he takes when he’s trying to hold himself together. “They died in a car accident when I was two.”

The words hit me square in the chest.

“I was in the car, Conor.” His fingers curl into my shirt. “The scar on my thigh…”

He looks down as if he can see it through his jeans.

“The one that’s always been there, that’s where it came from.”

For a long moment, I can’t speak. Every story Jaxon has ever told me. Every foster home. Every time he said no one wanted him. Every time, he wondered why he wasn’t enough. Built on a lie. One his mind created to fill a void no child should ever have to fill.

He didn’t spend years believing his parents died. He spent almost thirty years believing they left. The difference is devastating. I tighten my arms around him. Not because I have the right words. I don’t. Because some grief deserves silence. So I simply hold him. The way I’ve learned he needs. The way he once held me beneath a hail of bullets.

“Conor…” His voice is barely more than a whisper. “They’re buried here.” I feel him swallow against my shoulder. “In Philly. Neil gave me the information.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. The weight of those words settles over the room.

He takes another steadying breath. “Would you go with me?”

The question undoes me. Not because of where he’s asking me to go. Because he’s asking at all. A month ago, Jaxon would have carried this alone. Driven there alone. Stood there alone. Grieved alone. Because that’s all he’d ever known. Now he’s asking me to stand beside him. I tighten my arms around him.

“A Chroí…” I kiss the top of his head. “I wouldn’t let you go alone.”

His shoulders finally sag against me, as though he’s been holding himself together since he walked through the front door. I rest my cheek against his hair.

“We’ll take flowers. We’ll sit there as long as you need. And when you’re ready to leave,” I squeeze him gently. “We’ll come home.”

“Thank you.” Jaxon’s voice is small, fragile. “I know you have work, but…” He hesitates. “Do you think we could go now?” His fingers tighten around mine. “I don’t want to lose my nerve.”

I don’t even consider the question. I motion for him to stand, then I do the same.

“Let’s go.” Relief washes across his face.

It doesn’t take long to reach the cemetery. Fifteen minutes at most. Seems strange for something that has haunted Jaxon his entire life, it was practically in our backyard. Almost directly between our house and Mom and Dad’s.

The drive passes in comfortable silence. Jaxon spends most of it staring out the window. His hand never leaves mine.

Before pulling into the cemetery, I pick up my phone and send one message to the family group chat.

Me: Taking Jaxon to visit his parents. Don’t call.

A month ago, I would have kept this to myself. Believed it was my responsibility to carry Jaxon through whatever came next. Mom helped me understand that loving someone isn’t about standing between them and everyone else. It’s about making sure they never have to stand alone.

I pull into a parking space and shut off the engine. The silence returns. Jaxon looks at the rows of headstones stretching into the distance. Then over at me. I reach across the center console and squeeze his hand once.

“Whenever you’re ready, A Chroí.”

It takes only a few minutes to find them. The cemetery is quiet. The only sounds are birds somewhere overhead and the soft crunch of gravel beneath our shoes. Jaxon slows, then stops. I stop with him. Side by side, we stare at the shared headstone.

Thomas Kane.

Catherine Kane.

Their names are carved into the gray granite. Beneath them are the dates of their births, and the date they died. Nothing else. Just proof that they existed. The marker is plain. Almost forgotten among the polished monuments and elaborate engravings surrounding it.