Introduction to Chapter Three

Hey there, readers—Kendra Cassidy here, bringing you the next chapter of The Promise Keeper by Taylor Anne Vigil. We’re three chapters in now, and if you’ve been paying attention (which I know you have), you can feel it—that slow, quiet shift, the moment when walls start to lower, when something real begins to take shape.

This chapter isn’t loud. It doesn’t shout its revelations. Instead, it lingers in the silences, in the spaces between words, in the weight of a look, a breath, a hesitation. It’s about trust—not the easy, automatic kind, but the kind you have to decide to give, even when part of you is still bracing for impact.

Taylor Anne Vigil knows how to craft those moments—the ones that settle under your skin and stay there long after you’ve turned the page. And trust me, you’re going to want to turn the page.

So get comfortable. Sink into the story. And let’s see where this next step takes us.

The Promise Keeper

Chapter Three: The Swapping of Burdens

Not long into the month, TJ invited me to watch a movie with him. Still plagued by the exhaustion of COVID, I was grateful for an excuse to sit on the couch and do nothing, especially after spending the day outside with the kids. I sank into the soft cushions, tucking my legs in close for warmth. Across from me, TJ did the same.

“Wanna watch this one?” he asked, gesturing toward the television with the remote.

I looked at the screen as the trailer played—a fantasy film bursting with mythical creatures and vibrant colors. The moment I saw the beautifully animated griffin, I was sold.

It turned out to be far more violent than I’d expected. By the midpoint, a full-scale war had erupted between the beasts and the humans determined to destroy them. As the literal bridges in the film crumbled, an invisible one was forming between TJ and me.

Movie nights became the thread that tethered us together. With every new film, I felt more at ease in TJ’s presence. His demeanor was like a feather in the breeze—so effortlessly calm that it was impossible not to relax around him. And yet, despite this, my stutter persisted. The shame of it never seemed to leave.

TJ introduced me to The Conjuring trilogy, and with it, his quiet acts of kindness. He brought me cookies from the kitchen, handed me a glass of wine whenever he poured one for himself, and pulled a blanket from the hall closet when he noticed me shivering.

We were sitting in silence one evening when he spoke.

“I don’t mean to make you feel self-conscious, but I’ve noticed how hard it is for you to get around the house at night.”

I curled the blanket tighter around me, remembering the day I woke up and realized I could no longer read the small text on my laptop. The decline had been gradual, until suddenly, it wasn’t.

How could I explain the burden of my eyesight?

Darkness and brightness both worked against me. My legal blindness made navigating nearly impossible without my hands. I had to run my fingers along the walls just to reach the bathroom, feel for the doorknob to be sure I’d found the right door. The flashlight on my phone wasn’t bright enough, and turning on the hallway light risked waking the kids.

“I think I’ve got something that can help you,” TJ said.

He pulled a metal flashlight from between the couch and side table. I recognized it—one he used when working on cars.

When he saw me struggling to locate the buttons, he held out his hand.

“May I?”

I hesitated, then rested my fingers in his palm. Gently, he guided them over the buttons, showing me how to use the LED feature, how to adjust the brightness.

I frowned. “Are you sure? You need this.”

His voice was light. “Of course. Just make sure you use it.”

I did. And in the months that followed, I thanked him for it more times than I could count.

My failing eyesight wasn’t the only thing TJ noticed.

We burned through The Conjuring and Annabelle trilogies in under a week, staying up long after the rest of the house had gone to bed. The advantage of being legally blind? The darkest, scariest scenes were nearly impossible to see. Jump scares became predictable—the music always gave them away. The downside? I wasn’t immune to TJ’s teasing.

In the middle of a particularly tense moment, he made the death rattle from The Grudge, his voice growing louder with each passing second.

“Stop that!” I laughed, goosebumps prickling my arms.

He grinned, feigning innocence. “What? I didn’t do anything. I’m just sitting here.”

But his smug smirk betrayed him.

I tried to think of a comeback. “Y-y-y-y—”

The words tangled in my throat. God, why couldn’t I just say it? The moment stretched, the joke fading into dead air. Too much time had passed. The shame came fast and hard.

I fell silent, my face burning.

When the movie ended, TJ spoke. His voice was soft, steady.

“It’s okay.”

I stared down at my hands, blinking away tears.

“You know, I used to stutter when I was younger.”

My head snapped up. “Really?”

I struggled to picture it. Someone as effortlessly social as TJ fumbling over his words? It didn’t seem possible. But he nodded.

“Yeah. I stuttered just like you. I still do sometimes—just not as bad.”

Hope flickered, fragile and uncertain.

I opened my mouth. “W-when did y-y-y—”

The words stuck again. I gritted my teeth, frustration boiling over. Why me? Why couldn’t I just talk like everyone else?

I slammed my fist against the couch cushion.

“Hey. Look at me.”

I did. My face burned hot.

He didn’t pity me.

He inhaled, slow and deep. Without thinking, I mirrored him, pulling in a breath, then letting it go.

“That’s it,” he said. “Now try again.”

I took a smaller breath. Slowed down.

“When did you get over it?”

The words came out effortlessly. No sweat, no struggle, no shame.

TJ’s warm smile returned.

“That was easier, wasn’t it? It won’t work every time, but it’ll help you get started.”

We exchanged numbers that night.

He sent a text: So, what’s your story?

A lifetime of memories flashed through my mind—the stutter, the blindness, the childhood I didn’t talk about. There was too much to say. And yet, for the first time in years, I wanted someone to hear it.

I started at the beginning.

I was born premature—one pound, seven ounces. The doctors gave me less than a 10% chance of survival. My family scrambled to find a priest to baptize me, just in case. But I made it. I lived.

With survival came challenges: learning disabilities, the looming threat of blindness. My mother was told I’d never speak, read, or write. And yet, I was talking by four, reading by twelve, and writing by thirteen.

I beat the odds.

I didn’t tell him about the abuse. Those stories would come later.

Instead, I skipped ahead to the summer of 2018—the summer I went legally blind.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. My vision had blurred before, and I’d convinced myself it was just my glasses, just my imagination, just another fleeting worry. I’d given in to mindless anxiety before, and it had never helped. So, I pushed the thought aside.

Then, one morning, I woke up and couldn’t read at all.

Panic set in. My mother rushed me to the nearest eye doctor, where I learned the truth—the scarring behind my eyes, a result of laser surgery I’d undergone as a newborn, was slowly pulling my retina away from the back of my eyes.

The news was devastating.

Immediately, worst-case scenarios flooded my mind. Complete darkness. Losing my independence. Struggling to navigate a world built for sight.

Then came Dr. Irena Sway—a retinal surgeon who became my lifeline. But the fight to save my vision was brutal. The more scar tissue she removed, the more of my retina came with it. Every surgery was a gamble, each attempt to stabilize my sight another roll of the dice.

Through it all, I held onto optimism. I refused to let grief or anger consume me. Staying positive as my vision declined wasn’t easy, but somehow, I managed.

After multiple surgeries—some successful, some not—my retina finally stabilized. But “stabilized” didn’t mean restored. My world was dimmer, blurrier. What remained of my sight was fragile, unpredictable.

And with it came a new kind of anxiety.

As someone who already struggled with anxiety, this only made things worse. Going outside became an ordeal. Simple tasks felt impossible. More often than not, I’d break down in frustration—over missing a step, nearly colliding with a pole, misjudging the distance of an open door.

But I refused to let myself be a victim.

So, I smiled. I pushed forward. I kept hope in my heart, even when it felt like hope was nothing more than a cruel joke.

Now, sitting beside TJ, typing out my story, I realized something I hadn’t let myself acknowledge before: I had never truly grieved. Not the way I should have. I had spent years forcing a smile, pretending it didn’t hurt, convincing myself I was fine.

But I wasn’t fine.

And now, for the first time, the full weight of my reality crashed down on me.

I was nearly blind.

And there was no fixing it.

I looked up at TJ. He had finished reading what I’d written. His expression was unreadable, but his next words struck deep.

“It must be so frustrating to think so deeply and not be able to say your thoughts out loud.”

My breath hitched.

I stared at him, stunned. “Yes! It’s beyond frustrating!”

The words left my mouth easily, without stumbling. The realization hit just as fast—this was what I’d needed all these years. Not pity. Not empty reassurances.

Understanding.

My voice was hesitant. “I feel like people just see me as some kind of weirdo. Because I don’t talk much.”

I took a deep breath, and when I let it out, it felt like I was releasing the weight of that confession, too.

It felt good.

TJ smiled—a slow, knowing smile.

“You’re not fucking weird,” he said simply. “I was talking about you to Derek, and I said, ‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’ And he said, ‘Yeah, she is pretty cool.’”

Derek?

Alisha’s father?

I blinked, caught off guard. Derek and I had never really talked. A comment here, a joke there, but nothing substantial. I had no idea he saw me as anything other than the quiet girl in the background.

TJ grinned. “So, yeah. You stutter. But no one in this house is judging you. I promise you they’re not.”

I felt the sting of tears again—not from shame this time, but something else. Something softer.

For the first time in years, I felt seen.

“What’s your story?” I asked.

We were outside now, me wrapped in a jacket, him with a cigarette. The air was sharp with the memory of winter.

“You really wanna know?” he asked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.

I nodded. He hesitated, then took another drag. The cigarette burned bright in the darkness, a small ember against the cold.

Finally, he exhaled and said, “It’s not a happy one.”

It started with a drive.

Driving had always been his escape. It was how he cleared his head, how he made sense of the chaos. He would drive for hours, losing himself in the hum of the engine, the quiet of the open road.

Until the first panic attack.

It came out of nowhere. One moment he was fine, the next, his chest was tight, his vision tunneling, his body betraying him. He barely made it home.

After that, driving was never the same.

Flying was worse. He couldn’t set foot on a plane without a few drinks. Even then, he needed his wife to cradle his head, run her fingers through his hair, distract him from the crushing anxiety.

A year passed before he was diagnosed.

Agoraphobia.

At first, he could manage it. He still left the house, still pushed through the fear. But as time wore on, the world outside became suffocating.

The fear grew until it owned him.

TJ lifted his leg, resting his heel on the small table between us.

“See this scar?” He shone the small flashlight from his keychain against the sole of his foot.

I squinted, struggling to see it. But I didn’t want to admit that.

“Yeah,” I lied.

He took another drag, then told me the story.

It had happened while swimming. He sliced open the bottom of his foot on an exposed pipe. The wound bled so badly that he had to wrap it in a towel and drive himself to urgent care.

By the time he reached the waiting room, the towel was soaked in crimson.

A nurse examined the injury, then shook her head.

“Sir, you need to go to a hospital. We can’t stitch this here.”

“I can’t go to the hospital,” TJ replied, his pulse already rising.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t stitch this here.”

“You don’t understand.” He clenched his fists. How could he explain the hell he would go through just getting to the hospital, the way his mind would spiral the second he stepped outside his comfort zone?

“I have agoraphobia,” he admitted. “I can’t— I just can’t.”

The nurse hesitated, her answer firm. “I’m sorry.”

TJ stared at her. Then, with blood still dripping onto the tile floor, he got up and hobbled toward the door.

“Forget it,” he said. “I’ll just do it myself.”

He was almost gone when the nurse finally relented.

Four hours and several stitches later, TJ drove himself home.

But that was the moment everything changed. The moment the world became too much.

After that, he stopped leaving the house.

“It got so bad,” he murmured, “that I couldn’t even walk out of my bedroom.”

Sadness gripped me.

I had never known. He always seemed so steady, so unshakable. Or maybe that was his way of staying strong for the people he cared about.

I stared at the scar—at least, at where I thought it was—and thought of the lyrics to one of my favorite songs by Citizen Soldier.

I wish I had a scar,

Had a bruise,

On the surface,

Any kind of proof,

(I’m not okay!)

That everything I feel is more than just some sad excuse.

(I’m not okay!)

TJ’s scar was proof. A permanent reminder of everything he had endured.

My scars were hidden.

But somehow, he could still see them.

He stubbed out his cigarette, crushing it against the ashtray.

“I understand,” he said. “Not that our situations are the same, but I get it. You and I just need to give ourselves a break from time to time. Room to breathe, ya know? ’Cause it’s okay.”

He glanced at his phone.

“Shit, it’s almost three in the morning.”

I checked my own. He was right.

“We should get some rest,” TJ said, stretching as he stood. He slid the glass door open, the cold air slipping past us into the warmth of the house.

Reluctantly, I picked up the flashlight and stepped inside. The familiar darkness of the front room settled around me as I made my way to the couch. I didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. I wanted to hear more, to understand more about this man who had, somehow, become someone I trusted.

We exchanged quiet goodnights before retreating to our separate spaces. I curled into the blankets, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts tangled.

Was TJ really who I thought he was? Could I trust him not to hurt me?

Don’t be stupid.

The thought snapped through me, sharp and unwelcome. Of course, I could trust my brother and Alisha. They wouldn’t let someone dangerous into their home.

I exhaled slowly. “Don’t be stupid,” I muttered to myself.

A groan from the next room made me freeze. For a moment, I thought he had heard me, but then he shifted, rolling over in his sleep.

I let out another breath, softer this time.

His smile.

His kindness.

Those late nights.

His open heart.

The way we carried each other’s burdens.

I didn’t fear him.

Not anymore.