Chapter Nine: Stronger Than This

“Wanna go for a drive?” TJ asked, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door.

I glanced toward the window, a reflex by now. The night outside was pitch black, the cold pressing against the glass like a silent warning. A flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a low, distant rumble.

“Now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He cracked the door open. The clean scent of rain filtered in, soft and grounding.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning.

That smell always got to me—fresh rain, cool air. It stirred something deep and bright. I smiled back and started to stand, reaching for my cane.

“Wait,” he said, stepping toward the closet. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a heavy jacket and held it out to me.

“It was my father’s. Wear it—it’s freezing out.”

I took it like it was made of glass. Slipping it on, I felt honored. And somehow, like I hadn’t quite earned it.

Outside, the night wrapped around us, quiet and waiting. I could hardly contain the giddy pride simmering in my chest. TJ turned up the truck’s heater, and I buckled my seatbelt with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Y-you’re r-really ready t-to drive at n-night?” I asked, shifting in my seat.

“I’m gonna try,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

I couldn’t stop smiling. Wrapped in his father’s jacket, sitting beside him, I felt safe. Until we backed out of the driveway and I remembered the road.

No rain yet, but the slick was coming.

What if his anxiety flared while he was driving?

What if he panicked? Swerved?

What if we crashed and I couldn’t help him?

I had a new mission now: keep TJ calm.

I reached out and placed a hand on his back. He glanced at me, then looked ahead again. A few minutes later, his shoulders tightened. His breath hitched. He must’ve sensed me tensing, too, because as he eased into a turn, he began to sing—off-key, high-pitched, ridiculous.

“Anxious, I’m anxious, it’s okay to be anxious!”

It caught me off guard and broke something open in me. The absurdity, the grin on his face—it was disarming and perfect. I listened as he kept talking, rambling about his parents, Bruno Mars, the cars he’d worked on that week.

But my mind was elsewhere.

Me, crying in his lap.

His fingers brushing my face.

Me drifting further into safety.

His lips on my hair.

Me, wrapped in his arms.

Him, sharing my pain.

And now—him, singing through his own.

Where had this man come from?

Had he fallen out of the sky? Risen from ash?

Whatever the answer, it didn’t feel possible that someone this good, this whole-hearted, had just shown up in the middle of my life like a miracle I hadn’t dared wish for.

And now the idea of losing him?

That wasn’t just painful anymore.

It was unthinkable.

The night I wished I’d never been born was the night I finally learned the full shape of TJ’s suffering.

“Have you started yet?” he whispered, voice low and careful.

For a second, I didn’t understand. Then the hot cramping wave hit, and I realized. He must’ve seen the bag of pads I kept beside the toilet.

I wasn’t ashamed of menstruating. Why would I be? It was a natural function, nothing more. I left the pads out for convenience—my periods were irregular, my eyesight was poor, and it was easier to reach into the bag than grope around in the cabinet. Let people see. It didn’t matter to me.

I shook my head. “I-I’m a-about to. I c-can f-feel it.”

I pressed a hand to my belly, bracing. TJ’s face flushed.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just… I remember you telling me how rough it gets—how depressed you feel. I wanted to know if you needed anything.”

I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest. He remembered. Every little thing.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, overwhelmed by how deeply seen I felt—and how undeserving I still believed I was.

But as the week went on, the depression crept in.

Everything I’d lived through, everything I thought I’d buried, started rising up, closer and closer to the surface. Too close. I needed a distraction. Or maybe I just needed a witness. Someone who would sit in the dark with me and not flinch.

TJ had been buried in work all week—fixing cars, replacing tires, hammering bolts into place until his arms ached. He had every excuse to shut the world out. But he didn’t. Not when I needed him. If he saw the fear in my eyes, he’d stop what he was doing and wrap me in his arms, no hesitation.

No one soothed me like TJ did.

Even my brother—my hero, my oldest friend—didn’t reach me the same way. Without TJ, the little girl inside me was lost. And that night, she reached out again.

I heard the garage door open and shut. TJ came in, exhausted. And still, I asked.

“Can we go for a drive?”

He didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

He reached for his jacket and then handed me his father’s again, careful as ever. I smiled and slipped it on, savoring the weight of it like armor. Cold air met us as we stepped outside, sharper than I expected. I stayed close while he lit a cigarette and cracked the window.

And then I started to cry.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, instantly concerned.

I tried to speak, but the words stuck. Tears came again, harder this time. I hated myself for it. Why was I like this? Why did I have to break so easily? Why—

Grace.

He said it softly, and I knew what he meant.

I pulled out my phone and started to type.

I feel so broken, TJ. Like maybe I can’t be fixed. It makes me wish I was never born. If I was never born, I wouldn’t have been abused. I wouldn’t stutter. I wouldn’t be legally blind. I wouldn’t be—

He touched my arm. He’d been reading over my shoulder. “Don’t say that,” he said gently. “The world’s a better place with you in it.”

I looked at him. His hand slid from my arm to the wheel.

“I get it,” he said after a pause. “Believe me, I—”

His voice caught. He took a breath.

“I understand. Really, I do.”

His fingers tapped the steering wheel, slow and rhythmic. His jaw clenched as he searched for the words.

“It’s… rough to be me sometimes, too. With my agoraphobia…”

Another pause. His grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles went white.

“Sometimes it gets so bad I just want to pull the truck over, curl into a ball, and die.”

The look on my face must’ve scared him, because he added quickly, “Not like… not suicide or anything. Just like… I want to disappear. You know?”

I did. Exactly.

It wasn’t that I wanted to stop living. I just didn’t want to keep enduring.

“But I keep going,” he said. “I always push through. And you do too. I’ve seen it. The way you face your stutter head-on. Everything you’ve lived through—you still keep going. You’re stronger than you think.”

He hesitated, then added, “You’re stronger than me.”

I didn’t know what my face was doing. I couldn’t think past his words.

Stronger than him? This man who sang through panic attacks, who smiled through grief, who never cried where anyone could see?

I couldn’t see it. Not even a glimpse.

But I smiled anyway.

Soon, we were back on the road, the conversation tucked away like something fragile we’d both promised not to touch.

“Oh shit,” TJ muttered, spotting a flash of lightning. He turned to me, eyes on the cane folded in my lap. “You’ve got a lightning rod there.”

We’d pulled into the driveway by then, rain starting to fall in fine threads.

“Here, give it to me,” he said, hand outstretched.

My brain kicked into overdrive.

“B-but then you’ll g-get st-str-ruck,” I protested.

He shook his head. “Better me than you.”

I hesitated—but only for a second. Then I handed it over.

We walked arm in arm through the rain toward the house. I looked at him, stunned once again. He was willing to get struck by lightning for me. Even if it wasn’t likely, the willingness still shook me.

I never thought someone like him could care so much.

And somewhere inside, I wondered—

Did he ever think the same thing about me?

Was I a safe place for him, the way he was for me?

Later that night, TJ shut himself in the garage for his weekly therapy session. He never talked much about those. I hadn’t expected him to. All I knew was that they helped with his agoraphobia. That was enough.

The house was full but quiet—everyone in their own world.

The girls were in the front room, playing cards on the carpet and giggling like they always did. They fought sometimes, sure, but they were precious, those two. My brother and Alisha had curled up on the couch for a movie, watching their daughters with soft, unmistakable love. They were made to be parents. Derek was in his room, getting ready for another brutal night shift. Always the hard worker. Penny wiped down the kitchen counters, calm and methodical as ever. She was a saint—quietly holding the house together, one clean surface at a time.

That left me alone in the living room when TJ came back inside.

He hadn’t been gone long enough for a full session.

I didn’t mean to listen. I really didn’t. But I heard his voice as he walked past the couch, still on the phone.

“So, I’ve been trying my hardest not to feel shitty, and uh…”

He trailed off. Opened the door to the backyard. Retrieved his cigarettes.

There was something in his voice—raw and trembling. Like if he wasn’t already crying, he was close. I wanted to reach out, to stop him, to say you don’t have to hold it all in, but he was too quick. He passed me again, headed back into the garage, and shut the door.

An hour passed. Longer than usual.

TJ’s sessions never went that long. Never.

I fought the urge to go check on him. He needed space, I told myself. Not pressure. If he wasn’t coming inside, maybe that meant he didn’t want comfort. Right?

I stayed put. Hugged Casey and Magnolia before bed. Sent them off with a kiss and a prayer.

Thirty minutes later, he was back.

I didn’t notice at first. My nose was buried in a book on my phone. His “Hey” was so soft, I almost missed it. I looked up and saw him standing in the hallway, motioning for me to follow. No words. Just a look.

Then he turned and disappeared into the garage again.

I set my phone down and followed.

He was pacing when I entered. The door had barely shut before he reached for me.

Pulled me into his arms—and started to cry.

Real crying. Gut-deep. Uncontrolled.

I froze for half a second, stunned. Something like fear welled up inside me, rising too fast to stop. I held him anyway, arms wrapping around his trembling frame. I wanted to ask what happened, what broke him open—but I couldn’t speak.

He did.

“I’m stronger than this!”

The words ripped out of him. He pressed his face into my hair and sobbed.

Don’t say that, TJ. Please don’t say that…

I blinked back my own tears, hard. Harder than I’d ever tried before. And even as I held him, I wondered—how long had he been fighting this alone? How had I not seen it until now?

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry…”

Oh, TJ…

I hated every person—every parent, every voice—that ever taught boys that crying was weakness. That tenderness made them lesser. I hated them with a fire I didn’t know I could feel.

But I couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t fix what the world had done to him.

All I could do was stay. Stay and hold him through it.

I pressed closer. Rested my head on his chest, right over his heart. His heartbeat raced beneath me, too fast. I squeezed tighter, willing it to slow. It didn’t. I held him anyway.

Eventually, the sobs eased. TJ pulled back and sank into the nearest chair. He took off his glasses, wiped his face with his sleeve.

“God, I’m a mess,” he sniffed, managing a tiny laugh.

That laugh—his way of easing the tension. Not for himself, not just. For me, too. He always did that.

He squinted, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt.

“Fuck, I’m stronger than this,” he muttered again. “I know I am.”

His voice was steadier now. Still wet-faced, but more composed.

And I saw it then—the toll of having to hold it in all the time. The pressure to stay in control. It wasn’t fair.

I took a deep breath.

“E-even strong people n-need to—”

“Yeah,” he cut me off. “I know.”

He didn’t look at me. His fingers pressed to his lips like he was trying to hold something in. He knew what I was going to say. He just couldn’t hear it. Not tonight.

I wanted to tell him anyway.

That he was strong because he let me see him like this. That I admired him, no matter how many tears he cried. That I would hold him for as long as he needed, without judgment. That his vulnerability didn’t make him less of a man—it made him real.

But I said none of it.

He sniffed again. Looked up at me with a forced smile.

“I’m okay,” he said.

But he wasn’t. I could still see the battle in his eyes, still feel the weight of what he was holding back. He wanted to cry again. And for a second—just one second—he did.

The tears fell silently. Then he wiped them away, like it hadn’t happened.

He cleared his throat and stood.

“I wanna show you something.”

I followed him to another chair. There was a bag sitting beside it. He pulled it closer and opened it, pulling out a pair of shoes.

“Check these out,” he said. “My buddy won them at an auction.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

I didn’t know much about shoes. They looked nice enough—white with red stripes—but nothing special.

Then I understood. He was shifting the subject. Pulling himself away from the pain.

I smiled, wide and bright. Gave him what he needed.

“These are so cool!”

TJ looked at me. His eyes were red and swollen, his nose close behind.

And I wondered—how long had he been crying before he came in to get me?

He opened his mouth to respond—but nothing came out. His lips quivered. Then pressed into a frown.

I knew what was coming.

He pulled off his glasses and buried his face in his hands. The first sobs were soft, muffled behind his palms—but they hit me like thunder.

The shoes slipped from his lap and fell to the floor.

I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped my arms around him, held him close.

The feeling that gripped me wasn’t fear. It was helplessness.

I couldn’t fix this.

No ice pack could ease this kind of pain. No painkiller could touch it. There was no neat trick to make this better. No distraction big enough to pull him out.

All I could do was stay. Face the storm beside him.

Just like he’d done for me—over and over again.

And somehow, that was harder. Watching him hurt tore through me worse than my own suffering ever had.

I don’t know how long we stayed in the garage. Minutes. Hours. A whole lifetime.

But I do know this:

I would’ve held him forever, if that’s what he needed.

For the next two weeks, TJ lived in a darkness I couldn’t reach.

He slept through the afternoons—something he never did unless he was sick or had a splitting headache. Every time he laid down, he apologized, guilt flickering in his voice, like he was letting me down by missing the movie or show we’d planned to watch.

He crashed early at night, barely staying awake through our favorite episodes. He woke up late in the morning and skipped his usual routines—no shower, no brushing his teeth. And every afternoon, like clockwork, he disappeared beneath his blanket again.

At first, I brushed it off. He’d just started a new anxiety med, one meant to lighten the weight of his agoraphobia. I remembered how exhausted I had been when I tried a new prescription—drained like every breath took effort. It had felt like catching COVID all over again. I figured TJ was going through something similar.

But the longer it went on, the more I realized this wasn’t just fatigue.

He stopped working. No cars. No yardwork. TJ had always been in motion, always fixing, always building—his hands an extension of every tool he picked up. Now they sat idle.

He didn’t drive, either. Not even to offer a simple escape when I was having a rough day, like he always used to.

“Wanna go for a drive?” I’d text him.

“Not today,” he’d reply. Then roll over and go back to sleep.

That’s when fear set in.

This wasn’t tiredness. It was something deeper. Something darker. He was slipping away from me.

At night, I’d lie beside him on the couch. He’d be on the air mattress, eyes fluttering, struggling to stay awake—apologizing when he couldn’t.

I reached out one evening, touched his shoulder. He jolted like I’d woken him from a nightmare.

“Sorry,” I whispered quickly. “I didn’t m-mean to w-w-wake you.”

He rolled over, voice thick with sleep. “What do you need?”

I didn’t answer. I just held out my hand.

Wordless, gentle, he reached for it, lacing his fingers through mine.

Twilight played softly in the background. Rain whispered against the windows. It should’ve been a peaceful moment. But underneath it, anxiety prickled at the edge of my skin.

He was quieter now. Smaller somehow. Emotionless. Numb.

He wasn’t talking to me about what he was feeling.

He wasn’t feeling anything.

He was shutting down.

I squeezed his fingers. He looked at me.

I’m here, TJ. Talk to me. I’m right here.

He squeezed back. Gave me the smallest smile. A real one.

For one second, he was back. My best friend. My hero.

I half expected him to tease me about Twilight again—how he didn’t want to love it, but got addicted the moment we watched the first movie. That was his joke in the early days.

But his smile faded.

He let go of my hand, rolled over, and closed his eyes.

I wanted to slide off the couch, wrap my arms around him, hold on tight. Don’t let go. Stay with me.

One of his feet was sticking out from under the blanket.

I swallowed hard and stretched out my leg, brushing my bare toes against the warm skin of his heel. He tensed at first. Then relaxed.

The contact soothed me, if not him. But I was starting to realize something painful: the harder I reached, the farther he drifted.

There was nothing I could do.

All I could do was wait it out.

So I waited. And while I waited, I spent those long days with the kids.

Magnolia had her father’s talent—and his love—for art. She made intricate animal masks out of construction paper, built a pretend camera from toilet paper rolls and scraps, even crafted a laptop out of cardboard. She drew every key onto the “keyboard” with meticulous care: letters, numbers, punctuation, arrows—all in their proper places.

She was always creating. Bent over the kitchen table or sprawled on her bed, lost in scissors, glue, and color.

One day, she’d be famous. I knew it. I already told her, “I’m proud of you,” and meant it every single time.

Casey loved her VR headset almost as much as she loved anything else. She and Mathew played for hours, only stopping when the batteries died. Then they’d dash outside, Magnolia and I following, to jump on the trampoline or swing in the fading sun, giggling like nothing could touch them.

After school, they filled the front room with games, laughter, and chaos. Sometimes we all gathered—Casey, Magnolia, Mathew, Abigail, and me—tangled in a pile on the rug or the edge of the couch, taking turns on the iPad or watching something silly on TV.

We went outside. Then inside. Then back out again.

All while TJ slept through it.

Curled up on the couch, fading further from the world.

And I missed him more with every passing hour.

Relief washed over me like sunlight through a cracked window the day TJ stood up, stretched, and gathered his tools from the backyard.

His movements were slow. His eyes were tired. But he moved—and that was enough.

Day by day, he began to reassemble himself. A laugh here. A quiet joke there. His smile returned, shy and tentative at first, but real. The house felt warmer. Brighter. Like it had been holding its breath for weeks, and now—finally—it could exhale.

TJ was back.

And I had never felt more grateful.

 “Wanna see something cool?” TJ called as he stepped out into the yard.

I jumped down from the swing and hurried toward him. The kids stayed behind, still laughing, tangled in their own games.

TJ carried a long black case by the handle. He set it down on the table, flipped the latches, and opened it.

A rifle rested inside. Sleek. Heavy. Serious.

A pistol too, tucked neatly in the corner.

“For protection,” he said, almost casually.

I believed him. He’d once had a wife and four children to protect. And even now, that instinct hadn’t left him.

“You want to hold it?” he offered.

I froze. Took a step back. Hands up—not because I felt threatened, but because I didn’t trust myself to touch something so final. So absolute.

Even unloaded, the weapon felt too heavy for me.

I flushed, embarrassed by my own hesitation.

“Y-you should t-take me sh-shooting one day,” I said, trying to recover. “W-when you beat your p-panic disorder.”

Something shifted in his face. Barely a twitch—but I caught it.

He closed the case slowly. Clicked the locks shut.

“If I beat it,” he said, so soft I almost missed it.

“You will,” I told him. The words came out on instinct, breathless and fierce. “You’re stronger than you realize.”

He smiled.

A real one.

The first one in two weeks.

Then it faded. He picked up the case and turned back toward the house, leaving me standing in the golden dusk, unsure why the truth I saw so clearly never seemed to reach him.

Why couldn’t he believe it?

I’d seen him face down panic, depression, hopelessness. I’d seen him claw his way out of the dark with no guide, no rope—just sheer will.

I’d heard him cry and scream, “I’m stronger than this!” and mean it.

And maybe that was the truth we both needed to face.

He was only human.

So was I.

Maybe it was time we both started asking where those doubts came from—and why they’d stayed so long.