March 9, 1945

“I’m going to miss you,” John whispers in my ear from behind me, startling me damn near half to death.

I screech and whip around only to be pinned to the counter by John’s arms gripping the edge on either side of me.

My heart is racing, and I stare at him with residual terror as I lean away from him, despite his being my husband. A hint of beer lingers on his breath, though it’s admittedly better than the sour stench of whiskey that usually greets me.

After all this time, I hoped I would grow used to the awful smell, yet it doesn’t get any easier. His drinking, his loosening temper . . . none of it has gotten any easier.

“You nearly killed me,” I whisper, hand over my chest.

“I could never kill you,” John says, chuckling. “That would mean I would have to live without you, and that simply will not do.”

I force a smile and lightly push at his chest. He resists, and my discomfort grows.

“Well, of course not. You couldn’t cut a tomato without slicing open your finger, let alone cook anything,” I tease, though my voice is tightening. He still won’t release me, and it feels as if a wet blanket is constricting around me, preventing me from moving or breathing.

The man is many things, but he certainly is not a quitter. I’ve evaded further romantic touches between us, and since his stolen kiss back in January, I’ve told him I wasn’t ready to go back to the way things used to be.

It led to another fight, of course. I told him that unless he ventures to take advantage of me again, then he does not have access to my body. And if he does disrespect me as he did before, then there will be no hope of my ever forgiving or loving him again.

So while he doesn’t dare kiss me or try to engage in any intimacy at night, he persists in winning back my affection.

“Your culinary skills aren’t the only reason I need you, Gigi,” he berates lightly. “I don’t know how I would survive if anything were to happen to you.”

I roll my eyes and push him away again, this time firmly enough for him to comply. Subtly, I inhale a deep breath, grab Sera’s breakfast plate, and set it on the kitchen island despite her not being down here yet. Still the gesture offers me a bit of space from him.

“I’m going away for one weekend, John. I think I’ll be fine,” I assure. “I don’t believe there is much to kill me on the Oregon coast.”

Sera barrels into the kitchen before he can respond, with her hair unbrushed and crust still clinging to her lashes. She’s been an absolute nightmare getting up this morning for school. Her bottom lip is protruding into a pout, and her brow is furrowed.

“Mama, do you have to go away?” she whines, sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island and slapping her Schools at War journal onto the surface along with her rucksack. Then she slumps and rests her chin on her hand, her frown deepening.

Ever since I construed my little lie about going on a girls’ trip with Daisy this weekend, she’s been in a mood. Sera undeniably favors me over John and tends to get moody if I’m away for too long. I have gone on trips in the past, and I’m always met with the same attitude beforehand.

“Yes, my dear,” I sigh, leaning on the counter before her. I hate that she’s so upset. “You know I go on one every year with Daisy.”

She bangs the tip of her shoe against the island, pouting further. “It’s stupid,” she mutters, picking up her fork and flapping it through her scrambled eggs aimlessly, clinking the metal against the plate.

“You’re hurting my feelings over here, princess,” John teases, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. She flicks an annoyed glance his way, radiating teenage angst. “What if I sneak you ice cream later?” he bargains. The sullen look on her face doesn’t disappear, but he has her attention.

“How much ice cream?” she asks, glancing at him. Sera rarely takes advantage of situations, but with her father, she will bleed him dry any chance she gets. Only because she knows he’s the only one who will let her get away with it.

I give John a look, but he ignores me. “Until your tummy hurts.”

“How many flavors?”

I narrow my eyes at the two of them as they still ignore me.

He taps his finger against his chin, pretending to contemplate it. “How about three?”

“Fine,” she mumbles, though one corner of her lips sneaks upward. “Don’t forget that I have to get my war stamps after school. But then I expect to be drowned in ice cream.”

John does a mock salute, earning an eye roll from our daughter, though it lacks heat.

“It’ll only be two days. I promise I’ll come home first thing Sunday morning,” I tell her.

“Will you bring me back something?” she asks, staring up at me with puppy dog eyes.

“I always do,” I sing. “Now quit playing with your food and eat it. You leave for school in ten minutes.”

“Fine, but I expect a really cool present. Expensive, too. None of those touristy gifts.”

I grin. “Brat.”