Sunshine in the Shadows

The week before John deployed, we found out our baby was a boy. A boy. Not the little girl we'd already named. A boy we hadn't planned for, but a boy I already loved

A boy with a name we hadn't even agreed on yet. We argued over names for days, bouncing from classics to ridiculous suggestions.

"Bradley?"

"No."

"Hunter?"

"Absolutely not."

"What about Spartacus?"

"Are you serious?"

Finally, we landed on Ashton.

Ashton.

It wasn't too common, not too strange. It was perfect. Or at least it was good enough that neither of us wanted to keep arguing.

And then John left. Deployed. Gone. I was suddenly alone, pregnant, and free —at least, as free as you can be when your husband still expects you to answer the phone every day, no matter where you are. Work? Answer. Shower? Answer. Asleep? Answer. Because missing a call was a cardinal sin.

But without him hovering over me, something amazing happened —I found myself again. I reconnected with the people who had always been my sanity. My siblings.

Jane, Ryan, and Lynn.

Jane was 15, the golden child, the tattletale, the queen of rules and judgment. But she was also my partner in chaos. When we were kids, we didn't watch TV. We didn't need it. We had Barbie's. And oh, did our Barbie's have stories. Not sweet, wholesome adventures, oh no. We went full drama. Our dolls lived in a twisted soap opera world where crackhead mom struggled to keep the lights on, her rebellious teen daughter got pregnant, and everyone seemed to own a sports car despite their trailer park lifestyle.

"Can you please help me with this?" I'd beg, holding up the plastic dream house.

"No, she's not going to help you. She's too busy getting high again!" Jane's Barbie would shout, dramatically collapsing on the tiny pink bed.

We were storytellers long before we realized it.

Then there was Ryan. Eleven and a half, too cool for Barbie's, but always hovering nearby —just close enough to mock us but never far enough to actually leave. He was a giant pain in my ass, but that summer, we bonded. Junk food and video games became our sacred rituals. He'd show up at my house and leave with a backpack full of soda and chips. We would spend hours yelling at each other over whatever ridiculous multiplayer game we were obsessed with.

"Stop dying, Lola!"

"I'm literally carrying you, Ryan!"

"Oh yeah? Well, I have more kills!"

"That's because you're killing me!"

And then there was Lynn. My baby sister, turning ten that summer. Sweet, silly, and absolutely in love with my stupid dog, Athena. Athena was a skinny, yappy thing who thought she was a wolf. Lynn thought she was the greatest creature in existence.

"I trained her," Lynn would brag, tossing a treat. "She can sit!"

Athena would immediately sprint in the opposite direction.

"See? She's just shy." Lynn's optimism was bulletproof.

I loved those three like I needed them to breathe. They were my escape, my chaos, my constant. They filled my empty house with noise and laughter, with fights and jokes, with the kind of wild, unfiltered love that only siblings can bring.

But beneath the laughter, beneath the noise, there was always the quiet dread of the phone ringing.

Because John still called every day. His voice crackling over the line, a lifeline that felt like a leash.

If I didn't answer, the next call was a storm.

"Why didn't you pick up? Where were you? Who were you with?""I'm sorry, I was just—""Don't lie to me. I know you're running around, probably with one of my friends. Just admit it."

I'd sit there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at the joy around me: my siblings laughing, the dog chasing her own tail, and I'd shrink. My world would go cold. I'd apologize, promise I wasn't doing anything wrong, promise I loved him, promise I would answer faster next time.

And then, when he finally hung up, I'd smile again. I'd pull myself back to life, to laughter, to the noise. But his voice always lingered, a shadow over every moment.

But it wasn't just my siblings that saved me. For the first time in my life, I had friends. Real friends. I moved onto base and found myself surrounded by other military wives. Women who spoke in acronyms, who laughed at the same ridiculous struggles, who knew what it felt like to be a single mom with a husband thousands of miles away.

I made friends with my neighbors, swapping gossip and recipes like I was part of some secret society. I made friends at Mommy and Me classes, surrounded by other pregnant women waddling around with that same mix of excitement and fear. I made friends at the pharmacy where I worked. A job that didn't crush my soul or leave me feeling trapped.

And through it all, I still had Marie. My sister, my birthing partner, my forever partner-in-crime. We spent hours planning, laughing, and making jokes about how I was going to sneeze and pop out the baby.

"You better warn me, okay?" she'd laugh. "I don't want to be wearing my nice shoes if this turns into a horror movie."

"Don't worry. I'll aim for the doctor."

Life was busy. Chaotic. Messy. But for once, it was my chaos. My mess. And I loved it.

I wasn't just "John's wife." I wasn't just "the pregnant one." I was me. Lola, the gamer who argued with her little brother. Lola, the sister who sneaked candy to Lynn just to see her giggle.

I was a person again.

And even though John's calls still hung over me like a shadow, even though his voice could turn sharp in an instant, his expectations always hovering. I didn't feel trapped. Not completely.

Because I had a tribe. I had my siblings. I had friends. I had me.

And as the summer sun blazed outside and my belly grew rounder, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.

I was a person again. I was Lola. And for the first time in a long time, I was happy.

Really, truly happy.