As You Wish
The oppressive July heat hit Broderick “Brody” Harlo like a physical force as he stepped off the military transport at Fort Benning, Georgia. After three tours with the Army Rangers in the Middle East, he was finally home. His duffel bag felt light compared to the weight of everything he’d seen and done over the past four years.
He checked his phone for the first time since landing on U.S. soil, expecting a message from Melanie, his wife of twelve years, confirming she was on her way.
Instead:
“Don’t bother coming. The locks are changed. The kids don’t want you. It’s over.”
He stood motionless in the sweltering heat. Fellow soldiers streamed past him toward their own homecoming celebrations—wives running into arms, kids waving homemade signs, parents crying into uniforms. The message burned into his retinas.
Their last video call three weeks ago had seemed normal enough. Distant, maybe. But nothing to suggest she would end their marriage by text as his boots touched American concrete.
His thumbs hovered over the screen. A dozen angry responses flashed through his mind.
Instead, he typed two words.
As you wish.
Anyone who knew Brody would recognize the quiet danger. During his time as a Ranger, he’d become known for calculated precision. When chaos erupted and other men panicked, Brody grew unnervingly calm. “As you wish” was what he said before executing the most devastating operations with surgical efficiency.
He made a single call.
“Leona Fisk speaking.”
“It’s Brody Harlo. I need your services immediately.”
“I thought you weren’t back until next week.”
“Plans changed.”
“For you? Absolutely. My office, two hours.”
He hailed a cab and directed it not to the suburban home outside Atlanta where his wife and children—Trevor, sixteen, and Amelia, fourteen—supposedly no longer wanted him, but to a glass-and-steel tower downtown, home to one of the most feared divorce attorneys in the state.
As the cab pulled away from Fort Benning, he allowed himself one moment of raw emotion. He squeezed his eyes shut as the betrayal washed over him—then, like he’d done countless times in combat, he compartmentalized.
This was now a mission. And Broderick Harlo never failed a mission.
Leona Fisk’s office was polished surfaces and sharp edges: chrome, dark wood, expensive art. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Atlanta skyline—gleaming glass, interstate overpasses, and the distant glow of an American flag atop a corporate headquarters. The attorney matched her surroundings—tailored navy suit, platinum blonde hair in a severe bun, eyes that calculated your worth as soon as you entered.
“She waited until you were literally on U.S. soil,” Leona said after hearing the situation. “That’s cold, even by my standards.”
“I need to know what I’m dealing with. Then I need options.”
Leona’s smile was all predator.
“What exactly did you mean when you texted ‘as you wish’?”
“I’m going to respect her wishes to end our marriage,” he said calmly. “But on my terms.”
“Good. The weak ones want to salvage what can’t be fixed. You’re not here to win her back.”
“No. I’m here to win.”
Brody’s journey from Pennsylvania farm boy to elite Army Ranger had been paved with exceptional discipline and natural tactical brilliance. The youngest of four brothers raised by a widowed father, he’d learned early that survival required strategy. While his brothers relied on brute strength, Brody developed patience and precision—thinking three moves ahead even in pickup football games on muddy high school fields.
He’d met Melanie Stanford during his first leave after Ranger School. She was attending law school at Georgetown—brilliant, ambitious, from a wealthy New England family. Their attraction was immediate. Within six months they were married. When Trevor came, Brody was stateside, working as a tactical instructor. Those were good years. Melanie built her law career in Atlanta while Brody moved up the Ranger ranks. They bought the colonial in an exclusive suburb, planted a flag in the front yard, hosted Fourth of July barbecues.
After Amelia’s birth, the deployments became longer, more dangerous. Each time Brody returned, the distance between them had grown wider.
For the next hour, he and Leona constructed what she called “the nuclear option.” During his second tour, Melanie’s father had died, leaving her a substantial trust fund wrapped in Byzantine conditions. One stated that her spouse couldn’t access it without permission. Another specified that if she divorced, funds would be held until she remarried or turned fifty-five.
What Melanie didn’t know was that Brody had spent years studying financial law—a hobby born from his tactical mind’s obsession with understanding systems. He’d found a loophole her father’s expensive lawyers had missed, involving temporary reassignment of management rights during periods of “domicile abandonment” by either spouse.
By sending that text while he was returning from deployment—barring him from the marital home—she’d inadvertently triggered the clause.
Brody hadn’t touched a penny. But he’d legally frozen the entire trust. By the time he left Leona’s office, the paperwork was in motion, scheduled to execute at 9:00 a.m. the following morning.
His second call went to his oldest friend, Wyatt Dennis. They’d grown up together in rural Pennsylvania, enlisted out of the same small-town high school plastered with American flags and faded Army recruitment posters. They’d gone through basic training together; Wyatt had left the military five years ago but still carried himself like a soldier.
“I need surveillance on my house,” Brody explained after catching Wyatt up. “Who’s coming and going.”
“You think there’s someone else?” Wyatt didn’t really ask; he stated it.
“I need confirmation.”
“I’m on it.” Then, softer: “I’m sorry, brother.”
By nightfall, Brody’s phone began vibrating incessantly.
Melanie.
He let every call go to voicemail. Then came the texts, each one more frantic than the last.
What did you do? Answer your damn phone. You can’t just disappear like this. My lawyer is going to destroy you. Brody, I swear to God—
He read each one with the detached calm of a man studying enemy communications. She was rattled. Good.
At exactly 10:37 p.m., Wyatt sent a series of photos. A midnight blue Audi parked in Brody’s driveway, under the maple tree where he’d hung a tire swing when Trevor was little. A tall man with expensively cut hair, greeted by Melanie at the door. The final photo showed them embracing—not hesitant new lovers, but comfortable, established.
His name is Preston Hayes, Wyatt wrote. Real estate developer. Been in your house six times in the past 2 weeks. Kids seem familiar with him.
Brody set his phone down carefully. The pieces were falling into place.
He slept soundly that night—the deep sleep of a man with clarity of purpose.
At 9:17 a.m., Melanie’s lawyer, Rutherford, left a frantic voicemail about the frozen trust. Phase one complete.
Leona’s follow-up meeting delivered the deeper intelligence. Preston Hayes wasn’t just Melanie’s lover—he was her ex-boyfriend from law school. Credit card records and hotel charges showed they’d reconnected eighteen months ago, shortly after Brody left for his last tour.
While he was clearing buildings and watching friends die, Melanie had been rebuilding her life with someone else.
“And my children?” Brody asked, his voice betraying emotion for the first time.
Leona’s expression softened slightly. “Preston’s been playing daddy. Weekend trips, expensive gifts. Your son seems resistant—his social media suggests anger at both adults. Your daughter appears more accepting.”
“What about the house?”
“The property next door was purchased by one of Hayes’s shell companies six months ago. They’re planning to combine the properties.”
Not just an affair—a complete replacement. Hayes was literally moving in next door, preparing to absorb Brody’s family and his physical space.
“There’s more,” Leona added. “Hayes transferred two hundred thousand to Melanie three months ago. She used it to redecorate your house—marital property altered using her paramour’s funds. She’s also been paying household expenses from your joint account while maintaining this relationship.”
“Good,” Brody said. “But not enough. Find me something that gives me leverage regarding the children.”
“The courts typically favor mothers.”
“The courts favor stability and safety,” Brody corrected. “Find me something that proves she can provide neither.”
Meanwhile, Brody hired Harris Bentley, a former intelligence officer turned private investigator, on Wyatt’s recommendation. Harris operated from a no-nonsense mid-rise office, blinds half-drawn against the Georgia sun.
“I need everything on Preston Hayes,” Brody told him. “Not surface level. What he’s hiding.”
“Everyone’s hiding something,” Harris said. “How deep do you want me to go?”
“All the way.”
But before Harris delivered his findings, Brody needed to confront the immediate threat. He had Leona set up a meeting with Melanie and Rutherford.
The conference room crackled with tension. Melanie sat across from him, her once-familiar face now a mask of cold disdain. Rutherford projected cultivated outrage. Leona appeared amused—a legal panther lounging before the strike.
“Your client has maliciously interfered with assets excluded from marital property,” Rutherford began.
“My client exercised a legitimate legal option triggered by Mrs. Harlo’s own actions,” Leona replied. “Perhaps if she’d waited until he was actually home before changing the locks, we wouldn’t be here.”
“You weren’t supposed to be back for another week,” Melanie said—the first time she’d addressed Brody directly.
“Deployment schedules change. But your plans were well underway regardless.” He slid a folder across the table. “Property purchases in Costa Rica. School applications for my children. Airline tickets.”
Color drained from Melanie’s face.
“You’re planning to take my children out of the country without my consent,” Brody said. “That’s parental kidnapping.”
“It’s a vacation property,” Melanie snapped. “And you’ve been absent for most of their lives.”
“Absent serving my country. Not absent by choice.”
“Every reenlistment was a choice. You chose the Rangers over us every time.”
“And you chose Preston Hayes fourteen months ago, when you commissioned plans to connect our property with his.”
The room went quiet. Even Rutherford looked troubled.
“I’ll unfreeze the trust on two conditions,” Brody said. “First, the children stay in Atlanta with joint custody. No international relocations without court approval. Second, you tell them the truth—that I never said I didn’t want to see them.”
Melanie’s jaw tightened. “I protected them.”
“You lied to them.”
He slid one more document across the table—an agreement with her father, made before his death. A separate trust protecting Brody’s military earnings in case of divorce. Properly notarized, never filed with the main trust documents. The sealed envelope from the safe.
Melanie went white. “Dad would never—”
“Your father respected service. He also knew you inherited his ruthless streak. This was his insurance against exactly this scenario.”
After thirty seconds, Melanie nodded sharply. “Fine. But I’m still divorcing you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
That evening, a text from Trevor: Mom told us what really happened. Why didn’t you call us yourself?
I needed to be certain I could be part of your lives before making promises.
Are you back for good now?
Yes. No more deployments.
Then: Amelia’s mad at Mom. She’s crying in her room.
Brody’s chest tightened. Tell her I’ll see you both this weekend.
Wyatt’s next discovery changed everything.
They met at a diner on the outskirts of Atlanta—bottomless coffee, laminated menus.
“Your wife and her boyfriend are planning to relocate to Costa Rica,” Wyatt said, pushing a flash drive across the table. “Property purchases, school applications for the kids. Next month, right after school starts. The kids don’t know.”
While Wyatt talked, Brody absorbed the implications. His family wasn’t just moving on—they were planning to disappear to another country.
“I need access to our home,” Brody said. “Not to confront them. To retrieve something.”
That night, while Melanie and Hayes attended a charity gala, Brody entered his own house. The house looked exactly as he remembered from outside—a spacious colonial with white columns and a wide porch. Inside, however, everything had changed.
Gone were the comfortable leather couches he’d selected, replaced by sleek modern furniture in cool grays. Family photos had been removed from every wall. The spaces were filled with abstract art that could have hung in any upscale condo. Even the smell was different—expensive candles instead of the cinnamon and vanilla Melanie used to favor. It was as if she’d attempted to erase every trace of their life together.
The kitchen had been gutted and rebuilt with marble countertops. The den where he’d watched football with Trevor had been converted into a wine room. Brody moved through the transformed space with detached precision, cataloging changes the way he’d once cataloged hostile environments.
In the home office, the wall safe still used Trevor’s birthday as the combination. Inside: his grandfather’s medals from World War II, his own military documents, and the sealed envelope he’d come for—the agreement with Melanie’s father, already deployed to devastating effect in Leona’s conference room.
On Melanie’s desk, he found architectural plans for connecting their property with Hayes’s house next door. Dated fourteen months ago—four months into his last deployment. He photographed everything.
In Trevor’s room: sports trophies, gaming posters, organized chaos. On the desk, a framed photo of Brody and Trevor on a fishing trip three years ago, both smiling widely. The only photo of Brody remaining visible in the entire house. That single frame, stubbornly maintained by a sixteen-year-old boy, said more than any surveillance photo could.
Amelia’s room had transformed completely—sophisticated purples and silvers. On her bulletin board, a photo of Amelia, Melanie, and Preston at a ski resort. They looked like a perfect family unit.
He left his house keys on the kitchen counter where Melanie would find them.
Harris Bentley, the private investigator, dug deeper into Hayes and delivered his findings over coffee in his mid-rise office.
“His business model involves targeting wealthy married women whose husbands are frequently absent,” Harris explained, spreading documents across his desk. “Military, international business, politics. He becomes their friend, confidant, then business adviser. Eventually the husband is gone—divorce, usually—and Hayes remains with access to the family’s wealth through the woman. Three previous romantic partners lost millions before realizing what happened.”
“And the Costa Rica move?”
“That’s where it gets concerning. Hayes has connections to less savory enterprises there. The area where he’s purchased land is known for people looking to disappear from financial or legal obligations. He’s planning to isolate her—get her away from family, friends, familiar legal systems.”
“What about the property she thinks she bought?”
“The development exists only on paper. She invested 1.2 million from her trust for what she believes is a retirement home. The permits, infrastructure, and projected values are all smoke and mirrors. It’s an undeveloped parcel worth less than a hundred thousand. The timeline is aggressive—property transfer for your house is already in motion, scheduled to close in three weeks. That’s why she needed the divorce finalized quickly.”
For the first time, concern for Melanie flickered through Brody’s anger. She’d betrayed him thoroughly, but she was being manipulated by someone equally skilled at deception. And wherever Melanie went, his children went too.
Meanwhile, Brody contacted Trevor’s lacrosse coach and arranged to “accidentally” run into his son after practice. Under the lights of a high school field, Trevor emerged and stopped cold.
“Dad.” His voice cracked. “Mom said you weren’t coming back.”
“I’m here, son.”
Trevor’s face cycled through shock, confusion, anger. “She said you abandoned us. That you wanted a clean break.”
“I never said that.”
They talked for thirty minutes. Brody was careful not to disparage Melanie while establishing that Trevor’s assumptions were based on lies.
As he walked away, Trevor called after him. “Dad, are you just going to let him take everything?”
“No, son. I’m not.”
Then came the visit that changed everything.
Amelia showed up at his hotel room late one evening—tear-streaked and defiant, a hoodie pulled over her head, sneakers damp from the night air.
“Mom doesn’t know I’m here. Trevor helped me sneak out.”
Brody ushered her inside, heart hammering.
“Why didn’t you fight for us?” she demanded. “You just disappeared. I wrote to you every week. I sent emails whenever you could get them. I waited for you to come home, and then—nothing.”
“I was told you didn’t want to see me,” Brody said gently.
“And you believed that?” Her voice broke. “After everything?”
Brody knelt before his daughter, seeing for the first time how much she’d grown during his absence—taller, sharper, carrying the weight of adult betrayals on shoulders still too narrow for them.
“I’m fighting for you now,” he said. “I promise.”
“Mom’s selling our house. We’re moving away. Preston says you can’t stop it.”
“Preston doesn’t know what’s coming.”
Then Amelia told him something that made his blood run cold.
“He talks to us like we’re stupid when Mom’s not around. Tells Trevor to ‘man up’ and stop missing you. Told me I need to adjust to reality because you never cared about us.” Her voice dropped. “Last week he grabbed Trevor’s arm when Trevor argued with him. Left marks.”
The cold rage Brody had been controlling crystallized into something lethal.
“When?”
“Thursday. Trevor wouldn’t let him in his room. They got into a fight.”
“Does your mother know?”
Amelia shook her head. “Trevor said it would just make everything worse.”
After safely returning Amelia home with Wyatt’s help—Wyatt idled his truck on a side street while she slipped back into the subdivision—Brody called Leona.
“We need to accelerate the timeline. Hayes crossed a line he can’t uncross.”
Brody’s plan was elegant in its simplicity. He requested a private meeting with Hayes at the man’s downtown office—ostensibly to negotiate a clean break.
Hayes couldn’t resist. When the inconvenient husband requested a sit-down, curiosity overcame caution.
“Mr. Harlo,” Hayes greeted from behind his imposing desk. “Unexpected.”
Brody took in the man who’d been sleeping with his wife. Tall, athletic but soft around the edges, with the practiced charm of someone used to getting his way.
“You want Melanie. You want my house. You want my family,” Brody stated flatly. “I’ve accepted that. But lawyers and court battles will drag on for years. I’m proposing a clean break. I sign over the house, agree to divorce terms. In exchange: guaranteed access to my children and a two-million-dollar settlement.”
Hayes studied him, searching for the trap. “That’s surprisingly reasonable. Melanie described you as uncompromising.”
“Military service teaches you to recognize unwinnable battles.”
“I’ll need to discuss this with Melanie. But this offer is time-sensitive?”
“Twenty-four hours. I thought you were a man who knew the value of moving quickly.”
After Brody left, Hayes called Melanie immediately. Surveillance equipment Harris had installed in Hayes’s office captured everything.
“He’s desperate,” Hayes told Melanie. “We can wrap everything up and be in Costa Rica before winter.”
“What about the children?”
“We’ll honor custody until we’re ready to leave. By then it’ll be too late for him to contest.”
The recording captured it all: conspiracy to violate custody agreements, calculated manipulation, clear intent to defraud.
Exactly what Brody needed.
Hayes accepted the terms and scheduled a signing meeting for 9:00 a.m. the next morning at his downtown offices.
When Brody arrived, Hayes was waiting with two attorneys and a smug smile. He believed he was cementing his victory.
“Mr. Harlo,” he greeted, extending his hand. “I appreciate your pragmatism.”
Brody ignored the outstretched hand. “Where’s Melanie? She should be here.”
“She trusted me to handle the financial aspects.”
“This isn’t a business matter. It’s a divorce settlement affecting my children. Either Melanie attends, or we reconvene.”
Hayes’s jaw tightened before he forced another smile. He called Melanie—twenty minutes away.
“Perfect timing,” Brody said. “That gives us time to review some additional documents I’ve brought.”
The conference room door opened.
Leona entered, followed by a stern man in a conservative suit.
“Agent Donovan was held up in traffic,” she said briskly.
Hayes’s head snapped up. “Agent?”
“Franklin Donovan, FBI, Financial Crimes Division. I’m here as an observer.”
Hayes’s attorneys exchanged alarmed glances. One was already gathering his things, mumbling about consulting with his firm.
Leona distributed folders to everyone present. “These materials document a pattern of securities fraud, wire fraud, and conspiracy spanning seven years in three states.”
Hayes laughed, but it sounded hollow. “This is absurd. A transparent attempt at extortion.”
“No extortion,” Brody said calmly. “Just facts. You’ve defrauded previous romantic partners through manipulated real estate investments. You’re attempting the same with my wife’s trust fund. And you’ve physically assaulted my sixteen-year-old son.”
Hayes’s face drained of color. “That’s a lie. I never—”
“We have photographs of the bruises,” Brody cut him off. “And witness statements.”
Melanie arrived, looking confused and increasingly alarmed as she took in the scene: lawyers, an FBI agent, her husband, her lover—all in one room.
“What’s happening?” she demanded. “Preston, why is there an FBI agent here?”
“Mrs. Harlo,” Agent Donovan acknowledged. “We were discussing your investment in the Costa Rica development.”
“My investment?” Melanie looked to Hayes. “What investment?”
“The 1.2 million dollar transfer you authorized three weeks ago,” Brody supplied. “For the Villa Paraiso development.”
“That wasn’t an investment,” Melanie said slowly. “That was a property purchase. Our retirement home.”
“There is no retirement home,” Brody said gently—and despite everything, his voice carried genuine concern. “The development exists only on paper. The property you think you purchased is an undeveloped parcel of land worth less than a hundred thousand dollars.”
Leona slid the actual property records, permits—or lack thereof—and banking transfers across the table. Melanie sank into a chair, staring at the evidence.
“Preston, tell me this isn’t true.”
Hayes’s mask of confidence cracked completely. “Melanie, this is a misunderstanding. The development is in the early stages—”
“The development doesn’t exist,” Agent Donovan stated flatly. “We’ve been investigating Mr. Hayes for eighteen months. Your husband’s evidence accelerated our timeline.”
Melanie’s head snapped toward Brody. “You knew about this?”
“I suspected something was wrong when I saw the Costa Rica plans,” he replied. “The investigation confirmed it.”
Then Brody slid the photo of Trevor’s arm across the table. Finger-shaped bruises, photographed in sharp detail.
“Thursday night,” he said. “When Trevor refused to let him into his room.”
Melanie stared at the photo. Then at Hayes. Horror dawning.
“You hurt my son,” she whispered.
“He was being disrespectful. I barely—”
The slap echoed through the conference room. Melanie’s palm connected with Hayes’s face with enough force to turn his head.
“You lying bastard.”
What followed was a blur of activity. Hayes was escorted out by two additional FBI agents who had been waiting outside the conference room. His attorneys fled without a word. Melanie, shell-shocked and trembling, agreed to cooperate fully with the investigation.
When the room cleared, only Brody, Leona, and Melanie remained.
“After what I did to you,” Melanie asked, “why would you protect me from him?”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Brody replied. “I did it for Trevor and Amelia.”
“Did you ever love me?”
“I loved you enough to let you go when I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said. “And enough to stop you when I realized you were being manipulated into something dangerous.”
“But not enough to forgive me.”
“No,” Brody agreed. “Not enough for that.”
Three weeks later, the landscape had transformed.
Preston Hayes faced multiple federal charges. His assets were frozen, his reputation destroyed. The FBI investigation expanded to six additional victims across three states.
Melanie moved into a modest apartment near the kids’ school. The grand house sat empty. The trust fund was rescued—most of it—through rapid legal intervention.
Brody purchased a four-bedroom house fifteen minutes from school, in a quiet subdivision where kids rode bikes in cul-de-sacs. He accepted a position as a security consultant, providing stability while utilizing his military skills. The custody arrangement was settled without court intervention—equal time, alternating holidays.
Trevor claimed the largest bedroom as “mostly mine.” Amelia was still navigating her complicated feelings about both parents, but she was talking again, which was everything.
On his first night in the new house, Brody stood in the kitchen unpacking boxes while the kids explored their rooms. The sound of Trevor’s music thumping through the ceiling, Amelia’s laughter as she discovered the backyard had a patio—these ordinary sounds felt like a reward he hadn’t known he’d been fighting for.
On a crisp fall Saturday, Brody sat on his back deck watching Trevor practice lacrosse. Amelia was inside, monitoring the conversation through the open window—a fact both men silently acknowledged.
“Mom says she’s sorry,” Trevor said, pausing with the stick. “Like a hundred times a day. It’s getting annoying.”
“She has a lot to be sorry for.”
“Are you ever going to forgive her?”
Brody considered it. “Forgiveness isn’t simple, Trevor. I can work with her as your mother without forgiving what she did to our marriage.”
“She said she got caught up in Preston’s lifestyle. The money, the connections. Said she felt important again.”
“And did she feel unimportant with me?”
“She said when you were deployed, she felt like she was just waiting all the time. And that scared her.”
It wasn’t a justification, but it was an explanation Brody could understand. Fear made people do desperate things. He’d seen it countless times in combat zones.
“I wanted to tell you about the arm thing,” Trevor admitted quietly. “But I thought you wouldn’t care anymore.”
“Trevor, look at me.” His son did. “There is nothing—nothing—in this world that would make me not care about you or your sister. I will always protect you. Always fight for you. Do you understand?”
Trevor blinked rapidly. “Yeah. I get it now.”
When Melanie came for the weekend handoff, she looked around Brody’s house—backpacks by the door, cleats under a chair, a school photo on the fridge.
“They’re happier than they’ve been in months,” she admitted. “Trevor’s grades are improving. Amelia’s talking to me again.”
She took a breath.
“I let my insecurities drive me into the arms of a predator. I betrayed our vows, lied to our children, and tried to erase you. And despite all that, you saved me.”
“I saved our children,” Brody corrected. “You were collateral.”
She flinched but nodded.
“I accept your apology,” he said. “For the children’s sake, we’ll build a workable co-parenting relationship. But that’s all it can be.”
“I understand. I just needed you to know I recognize what I threw away.”
Six months later, the divorce was finalized. Fair terms, no animosity. Hayes accepted a plea deal—eight years in federal prison with restitution requirements that would keep him financially constrained for decades.
Brody’s consulting firm had expanded. He’d added two former Rangers to his team, creating a brotherhood that reminded him of what he’d valued most during service.
On a warm spring afternoon, he stood watching Trevor play in the state lacrosse championship. The stands were full, the smell of popcorn and cut grass in the air. Amelia cheered beside him. Melanie maintained a respectful distance—close enough for a united front, far enough to acknowledge boundaries.
“He’s really good,” said a voice beside him. An athletic woman with curly brown hair. “Scholarship potential.”
“He works hard,” Brody replied.
“I’m Vanessa. College recruiter, Northwestern.”
“Brody Harlo. That’s my son, number 17.”
Their conversation continued easily through the first half. At halftime, Amelia tugged his arm.
“Dad, I’m getting hot chocolate. Want some?”
“Water for me.”
Amelia dragged Melanie to the concession stand—a transparent attempt to give her father space with the recruiter.
Vanessa smiled. “Smart kid. Not subtle, but smart.”
“They both think I need to ‘get back out there,'” Brody said.
“And do you?”
Six months ago, he wouldn’t have considered it.
“I might,” he admitted. “Eventually.”
Vanessa handed him a business card. “When ‘eventually’ arrives, maybe coffee. Talk about your son’s lacrosse future, among other things.”
After Trevor’s team won in a nail-biting finish, the celebration spilled into burgers and fries at Trevor’s favorite restaurant—sports highlights looping on flat screens, the whole team crammed into booths, coaches and parents mingling. Melanie begged off, citing work, leaving Brody alone with the kids.
“Who was that woman you were talking to?” Trevor asked between bites.
“A college recruiter from Northwestern.”
“Dad.” Trevor rolled his eyes. “She gave you her number. I saw.”
“For recruitment purposes,” Brody said, though his slight smile betrayed him.
“You should call her,” Amelia declared. “She was pretty, and she knew about lacrosse, so she’s smart too.”
“I’ll consider it,” Brody conceded.
Later, at home, kids dropped at Melanie’s, Brody placed Vanessa’s card on his desk. The house was quiet—the specific quiet of a home that’s been lived in and loved, not the hollow silence of the hotel rooms he’d inhabited for weeks after his return.
His phone buzzed. Melanie: Trevor can’t stop talking about the Northwestern recruiter. Says she might be “the one.” Just a heads up our son is planning your wedding.
Despite himself, Brody laughed.
Thanks for the warning. I’ll manage expectations.
You deserve happiness, Brody. I mean that.
He stared at the message. Finally wrote: So do the kids. Thank you for today.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t reconciliation. But it was acknowledgment that they’d moved beyond the battlefield into whatever came next.
The following morning, Brody woke early for his run. He glanced at Vanessa’s card on the desk. After a moment, he picked it up and tucked it into his wallet.
The war was over. He’d protected what mattered most. He’d remained true to his principles—never yielding, never forgiving those who’d betrayed him—but not allowing bitterness to consume him either.
As he stepped into the dawn light, the Georgia sky streaked pink and gold, he thought about the text that started everything.
Don’t bother coming. The locks are changed. The kids don’t want you. It’s over.
His reply had been simple.
As you wish.
Not surrender. Not acquiescence. The calm declaration of a man who understood that sometimes the most powerful response is to accept the challenge and respond on your own terms.
The battle had been fought, decisively won.
And now, for the first time in years, Broderick Harlo was truly home.
THE END.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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