4338.207 · July 26, 2018 AD
The Word He's Learning to Say
Joel has never asked anyone for help. Jamie has spent years certain he doesn't want children. Now they're alone in a tent in another world, and everything they thought they knew about themselves is unravelling. Vulnerability doesn't come with instructions. Neither does fatherhood. But somewhere between the awkwardness and the exhaustion, something is taking root—fragile, uncertain, and more frightening than either of them expected.
Joel was the man of the house. That's what Mum needed him to be, so that's what he became. He learned early not to ask, not to need, not to let anyone see the places where he wasn't strong enough.
Jamie built his certainties like walls. No children. No fatherhood. He had his reasons, and he held to them for years.
Now Joel can't lift his own arms. Can't work buttons or zippers or manage the basic mechanics of getting himself ready for sleep. He has to ask. Has to accept hands that are gentle where he expected nothing at all.
And Jamie has to answer. Has to kneel in darkness and offer care he never practised, never prepared for, never believed he wanted. The certainties crumble. The walls come down. What's left underneath surprises him.
Two people who don't know how to do this, doing it anyway. Finding something in the fumbling that neither of them has words for yet.
Though Joel is learning one word. Slowly. Carefully.
It starts with D.
