She jolted awake, her phone’s shrill ring piercing through the fog of sleep. Her hand flailed across the nightstand, nearly knocking over the half-empty glass of water before grasping her glasses. Squinting at the screen, the bright light blinding her still-tired eyes, she noticed the time. 8 am. Shit. Only a few hours of sleep. She groaned and then grew puzzled when she saw it was her husband calling.

She tapped the answer button and brought the phone to her ear, her voice a croak. “Hello?”

“Can you come up here? The ambulance is on its way, I thought I’d better let you know before they get here.” His voice was strained, almost a whisper. A jolt of fear shot through her. Why wasn’t he lying beside her?

“What?” she asked, her mind still thick with sleep. Why wasn’t she understanding?

“Just come upstairs,” he said, the tension in his voice slicing through her confusion. Then the line went dead.

Her heart raced as she threw off the covers, grabbing a bra and fastening it under her shirt while she scrambled out of bed. She took the stairs two at a time, dread tightening her chest. Where was he? Panic gripped her until she saw him sitting in his usual spot on a stool on the porch, his face buried in his hands.

“Babe?” she called softly, stepping outside. The early morning air chilled her skin, but it was the look on his face when he turned to her that froze her in place. His eyes, usually so warm, were wide and filled with tears.

“I took some pills,” he choked out. “A whole bottle of them. I’m so sorry.”

She felt her heart drop, but she pulled him close, wiping tears from his tanned cheeks and cradling his head against her body. He kept mumbling apologies, trembling with each sob.

“Why, babe?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“I don’t know,” he managed between ragged breaths. “I just… I don’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t, anyway. I know I shouldn’t have.”

She held him tighter, her fingers running through his hair as he cried. Her mind raced back to the night before. What could have triggered this? The kids had been dramatic the day before, sure, but then they’d gone out to dinner and everyone seemed happy. He’d been trying so hard to cheer everyone up, and then… the liquor store. She remembered how he’d suddenly insisted on stopping there, throwing his phone down in the truck. Stopping at the liquor store? Normal. Throwing his phone down? Not so much.

Had he gotten some bad news? She knew how much he’d been through—so many losses in just a few years. His son, his father, his beloved uncle, friends, then he lost his leg which took away his mobility… the weight of all that grief had been crushing him. And now this, whatever this was?

A vehicle pulling into the driveway snapped her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see a BIA officer stepping out of his car. Her husband finished wiping his tears, turning to the officer. She stayed close, her hand resting on his shoulder, silently offering him whatever comfort she could.

“My phone is in there on the kitchen island,” he said to her, his voice hoarse. “I think it’s dead.”

“I’ll go plug it in,” she replied, brushing a hand down his arm before heading inside.

She found his phone right where he’d said, the screen dark. When she pressed the button, it flickered to life, showing 1% battery. She quickly plugged it into his laptop, then hurried back outside.

“About what time did you take the pills?” the officer was asking him. She returned to her place behind him, resting her palm on his shoulder. He leaned into her, drawing strength from her presence.

“It was late last night,” he confessed. She bit her lip, trying to piece together when it could have happened. After they’d gotten home? He’d wanted to build a fire, sit outside with that bottle of peppermint schnapps. She’d felt uneasy leaving their son out there with his dad drunk and in a wheelchair, so she’d stayed up, periodically peeking on the two of them through the kitchen window.

Then, around 1 am, her son had come inside, eyes red and filled with fear. “Mom, help,” he’d pleaded. “Dad won’t stop putting his hand in the fire so I put it out. Now he’s mad at me.”

She’d rushed outside, finding him struggling, angry, nearly tipping out of his wheelchair trying to relight the flames. He’d lashed out at them both when they tried to help sit him back up, yelling in frustration. They’d retreated behind her husbands truck, then stood there, helpless, until she’d wrapped her arms around their son, holding him as he sobbed into her shoulder. They’d gone inside quietly after that, leaving him to his fire and his demons.

She’d paced the kitchen for hours, unable to sleep, not knowing whether to drag him inside or let him be. When he’d finally come in, he’d seemed calm, telling her he felt much better after getting the fire restarted on his own. They’d gone to bed, exhaustion pulling her into a deep sleep. Did he get up while I was sleeping and take the pills? she wondered.

The officer’s questions continued, her husband’s voice growing calmer. The EMT folks had pulled up outside. He didn’t want to go to the hospital by ambulance but agreed to go with the officer if he drove him there.

“Let me go see how charged your phone is,” she said, needing to keep herself busy.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t want the damned thing.”

Her brows furrowed. What was he hiding? Her mind raced, searching for answers she couldn’t find.

She watched helplessly as the officer and a first responder helped her husband into the vehicle. As they drove away, she felt a hollow ache settle in her chest. She couldn’t be with him. There was nothing she could do but wait.

Inside, she sat down at the kitchen table, staring at his phone. It was still plugged in, the screen now lit up with notifications. Should I? she wondered. Would it be wrong to look?

Her fingers hovered over the phone for a moment before she unlocked it. The last message was from his daughter. Her heart sank as she read it, then read it again. This is why he threw his phone! The timestamp was from last night. She felt her stomach twist as she realized the weight of the words on the screen. In her message, his daughter had typed that she wouldn’t be bringing the kids around anymore, saying they didn’t feel welcome.

All because of a few pictures from dinner? she thought in disbelief. How could that be? She had no idea any of them had felt singled out. It was no wonder this sent him into a spiral—having get-togethers with the kids was one of the few things he had to look forward to these past few years. He’d even gone from a grump who didn’t care much for holidays to the grandpa who delighted in filling Valentine buckets and Easter eggs with goodies. These moments, these gatherings, had become his joy, his way of staying connected to the family. His lifeline.

She thought back to all those family events, the effort she’d put into making everyone feel included. But reading this message, she was being accused of bullying his daughter’s oldest child. Her heart ached at the thought. She’d been so meticulous, trying to make sure they felt welcome, even if it was awkward at times since they didn’t know her well. But still, how could they not know she’d do anything for them?

With her coffee in hand, she sat down to think. She had to fix this before her husband came home, had to find a way to repair this relationship with his daughter. They’d always gotten along so well, that she was baffled by this. She typed out a message, then deleted it. Tried again. And again.

An hour later, she had something she thought might help—empathetic, understanding, full of love and an invitation to talk. If I can fix this, he can come home to peace, and that will do more for him than anything, she thought as she hit send.

The response came quicker than she’d expected, and it was full of anger over her reading the text message and accusations that didn’t make sense. A lump formed in her throat, but she responded with love again. She waited. The next response was just as angry, if not more.

What do I do? she wondered, her eyes filling with tears. She set the phone aside, feeling defeated, and waited to hear from the hospital.