“No, Mommy. No!”

I sank back down on the side of the mattress. “I don’t want to upset him.”

John’s jaw set like DJ’s. “I’ve been thinking. About what you said. About us being partners.”

I stared at him. Now he wanted to talk?

He plowed ahead. “The thing is, my dad was never around much. Your father, he’s not much better. I can be like them and not do anything. Or . . .” He met my gaze, his eyes steady, his jaw firm. “I can try to be your partner. But if we’re partners, sometimes you’ve got to let me do things my way.”

Something inside me softened and relaxed like a fist letting go. My heart. My womb.

DJ crawled out from under the covers, his arms warm and clingy around my neck.

“He’ll wake Daisy,” I warned.

“Then I’ll deal with it.” John sat beside me, lifting DJ from my lap. “Say good night to Mommy.”

DJ twisted and struggled. “No! Mommy!”

“Mommy’s tired.” It was John’s coach voice. “Daddy’s putting you to bed.”

DJ gave a heartbreaking sob. “Mamama . . .”

I escaped to the hall, my face flushed, my heart pounding in guilt and relief.

DJ was still sobbing in outrage as I brushed my teeth, as I pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt and folded the rest of the laundry. I heard Daisy’s voice raised in sleepy protest and John’s quiet murmur as he tried to settle our babies to sleep.

Gradually, the noise across the hall subsided. I waited.

No John.

Fearing the worst, I padded across the hallway and peeked in the bedroom door. My husband slumped against the wall of DJ’s bed, a child cuddled in the circle of his arm on either side, Daisy holding tight to his finger. All of them fast asleep.

Something moved in me, deeper than words.

This was love. Not holding back, not keeping score, but doing things for each other. Giving to each other. Not out of obligation, but generously, because it was a joy to offer.

Head to one side, I considered the family pile on the bed. And then—carefully, so carefully, so I didn’t wake the kids—I crawled across the mattress, and laid my head on John’s sprawled leg, and joined them in sleep.

CHAPTER 19

Jo

My father kissed my forehead when he came downstairs the next morning—a rare mark of affection usually reserved for birthdays, holidays, and straight As on my report card.

When I was growing up, I used to think we enjoyed a special, cerebral bond, like Lizzy and Mr. Bennet.

Maybe my coming home was an opportunity for us to develop a deeper understanding. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss my love life with my father. Or the state of my finances or my sudden unemployment. I was here to be a help, not a drag. He had more important things—people—to worry about. Suicidal veterans. Mom.

But maybe now we would finally talk, really talk, about the toll of Iraq on his soldiers and himself, the difficulties of settling into life back home after losing so many friends. It would be the start of a new, closer, adult relationship between us, and years from now, he would say, Yeah, I had some trouble adjusting. But when I realized I needed someone to talk to, my daughter Jo was there for me.