He picked dinosaur sheets.
Ethan bought too many toys out of guilt.
Then realized halfway through assembling a plastic race track that guilt was not parenting.
He returned half the unopened things.
Instead, they went to the park.
Noah fell.
Scraped his knee.
Then immediately said:
"I'm sorry."
Ethan knelt.
"For what?"
"I fell."
The answer stunned him.
"You don't apologize for getting hurt."
Noah looked uncertain.
"Grandma says I'm careless."
Ethan sat beside him on the ground.
"Noah."
The boy looked at him.
"You are allowed to fall."
"But I should be careful."
"Yes."
"And careful boys don't fall."
Ethan almost laughed.
"Who told you that?"
Noah didn't answer.
Ethan cleaned the scrape.
"You know Daddy has scars?"
Noah nodded.
"Lots."
"Exactly."
"Because you weren't careful?"
Ethan smiled.
"Sometimes."
Noah considered.
"Did Grandma put you in the corner?"
Ethan laughed despite himself.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I was grown."
"That's not fair."
"No."
Ethan looked toward the playground.
"It's not."
Therapy began the following week.
Noah's therapist was Dr. Maria Collins.
She specialized in children who experienced loss and caregiver instability.
The first session involved toys.
Noah played.
Ethan watched through part of it.
Maria later asked to speak privately.
"Has Noah experienced physical punishment?"
Ethan's stomach tightened.
"I don't know."
"Have you seen bruising?"
"No."
"Has he described being hit?"
"Not directly."
Maria nodded.
"What does he describe?"
Ethan told her.
The floor.
The corner.
Crying.
Food punishments.
Harsh language.
Maria listened.
Then said:
"The pattern matters more than one incident."
Ethan looked down.
"Did I leave him somewhere unsafe?"
Maria did not rush to reassure him.
He appreciated that.
"You left him with someone you trusted."
"My judgment was wrong."
"Possibly."
He looked at her.
She continued.
"But guilt will only help Noah if it changes what you do now."
Ethan nodded.
That sounded like something Rachel would say.
Maria asked:
"How are you doing?"
"I'm fine."
She smiled slightly.
"Soldier answer?"
He almost laughed.
"Yeah."
"Try again."
Ethan thought.
"Angry."
"At Margaret?"
"At everyone."
"Yourself?"
"Mostly."
Maria nodded.
"And scared."
He hated saying that.
"Of?"
"That I don't know how to be his dad anymore."
Maria leaned back.
"He's four."
"I know."
"Then you have time."
Ethan stared at her.
That simple sentence helped.
You have time.
Rachel died.
Deployment happened.
Eleven months were lost.
But there was still time.