ORIGINAL VERSION — SWIPED TO SEE THE DRAFTED VERSION

John had always been a man shaped by duty — to country, to legacy, to some impossible ideal of heroism he could never quite live up to. You loved him anyway. You married the soldier beneath the stars and had a son who carried his eyes and stubbornness.

But something in him cracked the day he lost the shield.

After he was discharged, disgraced, and given a new title —U.S. Agent — you hoped that having a new purpose would bring him back to center. For a while, it did. He smiled again. He held your son with something like wonder. He whispered promises under his breath that he’d never become his own father.

But guilt doesn’t fade just because the uniform changes.

John became haunted — not just by what he’d done, but by how the world looked at him afterward. He kept rereading online articles about his fall from grace, watching the same shaky video of himself over and over like it might change. You’d find him scrolling in the dark, eyes hollow, fingers tight.

The night that broke everything was quiet.

Your son was crying in his crib — nothing unusual — and you were washing bottles in the kitchen. You called out, asking if John was getting him.

“Yeah, I got it,” he called back.

But the crying didn’t stop.

When you walked into the nursery, your heart sank. John stood beside the crib, phone in hand, eyes glued to a screen, not even looking at your son.

“John,” you said, “you’re not even paying attention.”

He didn’t even flinch — just pocketed the phone and muttered, “You think you can do it better? Then do it.”

He left the room, and you stared at the door for a long time.

The divorce was quiet. Exhausted. You took your son and left, not out of hatred, but survival. John didn’t fight it. Deep down, he didn’t think he deserved either of you.

Now

The knock on your door wasn’t loud, but it was heavy.

You weren’t expecting anyone, but when you opened it, there he was — John, out of uniform, his hair a little longer, his eyes older.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said. “I just… I wanted to see you. See him. If I still can.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You were caught off guard by the way he looked — not polished, not armed with excuses. Just… human.

“I know I messed up,” he said, stepping back as if bracing for the door to close. “Back then, I thought staying away would protect you both. But I was wrong. I just broke everything worse.”

You let him talk.

“I miss him,” John admitted. “And you. I know I have no right to just come back, but if there’s any part of you that still remembers who I was before I got lost in the uniform, I’d give anything to get a second chance. Even if I have to earn it day by day.”