He carefully buckled the baby—his son, who still had no name—into the brand-new car seat he had installed just a few weeks ago, a time when the future still felt bright with promise. The drive home was a silent, hazy journey, the radio dark, the only sound the occasional, gentle coo from the tiny passenger in the back seat.
For more than a decade, Mike had been a long-haul trucker, hauling freight across the vast American West. The work paid well—better than most jobs in Harmony Ridge—and he had built a reputation for being dependable and punctual. He and Jessica had managed to build a comfortable life: a charming two-story house on Aspen Drive with a wide front porch and a sprawling backyard where their daughters, Lily and Grace, spent summer evenings chasing fireflies.
Lily, at seven, was a whirlwind of pigtails and endless questions, while five-year-old Grace possessed her mother’s gentle green eyes and a fierce, unyielding will. They had always had everything they needed. Mike had made sure of it, diligently setting aside money for college funds and family vacations they never seemed to find the time to take.
But the life had taken its toll on Jessica. Mike’s job kept him away for long stretches, leaving her to juggle the girls, the house, and the quiet loneliness of a small town by herself. He’d tried to compensate with material things, buying her a brand-new SUV the previous year, believing it would make her life easier. She had merely shaken her head, her voice quiet but edged with a weariness that cut him to the core.
— “I don’t need a new car, Mike,” she had told him, standing amidst the controlled chaos of their kitchen. “I need you. The girls need their father here, not just on the phone.”
He had promised he would change, that he’d look for shorter routes, but the mortgage was always due, and there was always another lucrative haul just waiting to be taken. When Jessica discovered she was pregnant for a third time, she had sat him down at their well-worn kitchen table, her hands trembling in her lap.
— “I don’t think I can do this again, Mike,” she’d confessed, her voice barely a whisper. “I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water as it is. Two is enough.”
— “But it could be a boy, Jess,” he’d countered, his own excitement blinding him to her desperation. “A son. Someone to carry on the Sullivan name. We’ll manage. We always do.”
She had looked away from him then, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but Mike had been relentless. He painted a vibrant picture of their future—of father-son fishing trips, of teaching a boy how to change the oil in a truck, of backyard football games. Jessica had eventually relented, not out of desire, but out of a deep and abiding love for him. Now, as Mike pulled his truck into their driveway, the brutal consequence of his persistence crashed down on him. His son was here, asleep in the car seat, but Jessica was gone. He had gotten the one thing he wanted most, and the price had been everything he held dear.
Inside, the house felt cavernous and cold. The girls were staying with a neighbor, mercifully shielded from the hospital’s grim atmosphere for a little while longer. Mike carried the infant upstairs to the nursery, a room Jessica had lovingly prepared with walls the color of a summer sky and a whimsical mobile of miniature biplanes. He gently placed the boy in the crib and stood there, watching the tiny chest rise and fall with each breath.
What was he going to do? His trucking career was over; he couldn’t leave three children, one of them a newborn. He’d have to find something local, perhaps working at the garage on the edge of town. But before any of that, he had to plan Jessica’s funeral. She deserved a farewell as warm and full of life as she had been, and Mike was determined that his own suffocating grief would not prevent him from giving her that.
The following morning, Brenda Walsh was in the kitchen before Mike had even managed to start the coffee maker. Brenda, Jessica’s closest friend since childhood, had been a constant presence in their lives, her boisterous laughter and bottomless well of stories a familiar sound in their home. Mike had never truly liked her. Single, with no children of her own, Brenda always seemed to be lingering, and her presence grated on him. He had often complained to Jessica, asking her to tell Brenda to stay away when he was home between runs.
Jessica would simply roll her eyes and say that Brenda was family. Now, seeing her standing there, Mike saw her in a completely different light. The moment the hospital had called with the news, Brenda had been the first person at his side, asking no questions. She had immediately taken Lily and Grace back to her own apartment, protecting them from the trauma while Mike sat in a fog of shock and disbelief.
— “I’ve got the girls,” Brenda announced now, her usually wild curly hair tamed into a haphazard bun. “They’re doing okay, but they’re confused. I can bring them home later this afternoon. How is the little one?”
— “He’s hungry,” Mike admitted, his gaze drifting toward the nursery. “I… It didn’t even occur to me to buy formula.”
Brenda’s expression softened with sympathy. She held up a plastic grocery bag.
— “I figured. I’ve got you covered. Bottles, formula, diapers, the whole nine yards. I swung by the store on my way over.”
Mike let out a long, shuddering breath, a wave of profound relief momentarily washing over his exhaustion.
— “Thanks, Brenda. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She dismissed his gratitude with a wave of her hand and headed for the kitchen to prepare a bottle. The baby’s cries began to escalate, becoming sharp and demanding. Mike followed her, watching as she deftly mixed the formula, her movements sure and steady. She unwrapped the blanket from the infant, revealing a pale, blond-haired baby with a faint, reddish mark on his left cheek, shaped almost like a teardrop.
— “Oh, look at this little cherub,” Brenda cooed, gently rocking the baby in her arms. “He’s so fair! He doesn’t really look like you or Jessica, does he? What’s this on his cheek? Is that some dirt?”
She began to rub at the mark with her thumb, a frown creasing her forehead. Mike leaned in closer, his own brow furrowing. The baby’s light skin and wispy, almost white hair were a stark contrast to his own dark features and Jessica’s rich, chestnut curls. For a fleeting, disorienting moment, a crazy thought flashed through his mind—what if there had been a mix-up at the hospital? He immediately pushed the idea away.
— “Stop that,” he said, his tone sharper than he’d intended. “It’s not dirt, it’s a birthmark. You’re going to irritate his skin.”
Brenda stopped instantly, her cheeks flushing with color.
— “Oh, right. Sorry. He’s just… so different. Anyway, have you picked out a name for him yet?”
— “Caleb,” Mike said without hesitation. It was a name he and Jessica had discussed, one she had loved from an old storybook.
— “Caleb,” Brenda repeated, a small smile touching her lips. “It’s a good name. It suits him. Look, don’t you worry about Caleb today, Mike. I’ll take care of him and the girls. You need to focus on… everything else.”
Mike nodded, a lump forming in his throat.
— “I’m going to the Harmony Ridge Funeral Home. I need to make the arrangements for Jessica’s service, and the reception afterwards.”
— “There’s a little catering company out on the highway,” Brenda offered. “They do good food, and they’re really affordable.”
Mike’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
— “No. Jessica is getting the best. We’re not cutting any corners.”
— “Of course,” Brenda said quickly. “I just meant, you know, with three kids now, money might be an issue.”
— “I have savings,” Mike countered. “We’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t just posturing. The years of long, lonely hauls had allowed him to build a substantial nest egg—enough to buy the house, the SUV, and to have a comfortable cushion for emergencies. Mike had always held onto the dream of quitting the road for good and opening his own mechanic shop, a place where he could work with his hands and still be home in time for dinner. He had pictured Jessica there with him, the kids playing in the office, their faces smudged with grease. That future had been stolen from him, but the money remained, and he would use every penny of it to honor his wife.
