Everything you leave beh.., p.1
Everything You Leave Behind, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by River Grove Books
Austin, TX
www.rivergrovebooks.com
Copyright © 2026 Weston Hayes Walker
All rights reserved.
Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright law. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, used for training artificial intelligence technologies or systems, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Distributed by River Grove Books
Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group
Cover artwork by Forrest Scott Walker. Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group
Back cover image © Adobe Stock / Arlenta Apostrophe
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.
Print ISBN: 978-1-966629-73-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-966629-74-0
First Edition
For anyone struggling to find a way forward—keep going.
CHAPTER ONE
The morning of January fourteenth started like any other for Vincent Palmer. As the winter sun struggled to rise from its prolonged slumber, the clock flipped from 5:59 to 6:00 a.m. and the opening salvo of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” began to emanate from the battered iPhone lying on his bedside table. The volume steadily increased until Vincent was forced to acknowledge this new day, and he scrambled to turn off the alarm before Lisa started complaining, once again, about how obnoxious his alarm choice was. Managing to cut the alarm before his wife was pulled away from her dreams, Vincent quietly shuffled over to the bathroom to begin his daily routine.
Just like every day for the past ten years, he started the shower and turned on his handy waterproof bathroom radio. And, just like every day, he was greeted by the sound of Elliott Montgomery, the local shock jock, who was announcing: “Today is Friday, January fourteenth, and here’s the news you need to start your morning . . .”
Clouded by his early morning fog, Vincent had completely forgotten until that very moment that today was his birthday.
He had despised his birthday since the first grade, and he was particularly dreading this one. Forty-five. It sounded so . . . middle of the road. Young enough to be considered lively by his elderly relatives, but too old to be considered a peer by his younger coworkers and neighbors. His birthday felt like an unwanted reminder that he hadn’t come close to accomplishing anything noteworthy in this life that once seemed so full of possibility. He’d spent much of his youth dreaming big, at different points imagining a near-future version of himself making it as a professional baseball player, successful businessman, artist, or even a local politician—all things he’d felt interested in and passionate about at various stages of his life. But events had never seemed to work out the way he’d imagined, and this birthday felt like a painful signal that any chances he had to change that fact were long gone.
Sulking in the shower, he reflected on what this day represented. Setting aside his thoughts of now-distant friends and loose acquaintances sending him shallow well wishes in thinly veiled attempts to show they gave a shit (when he knew they didn’t), he chose to journey down a much darker path this morning. After forty-five insignificant years on this planet, was there anything left to live for?
Why hadn’t he jumped off a cliff yet?
There were the obvious reasons: His wife and young daughters would be devastated, and it was likely that a handful of friends he’d made over the years would have a tough day if he were to turn up dead. Those had been reason enough to keep moving forward in the years since his mom’s unexpected passing, when his mood really seemed to take a turn, but they didn’t seem to have the same power over him they typically commanded. Sure, it made him feel terrible to think that others would have to suffer because of his selfishness, but what about him? Having to keep up appearances while crumbling within left him constantly exhausted. Lately every breath he took felt like a punishment. Wouldn’t they be happy if they knew he’d found some peace in choosing to opt out of this agony?
As the water gently massaged the back of his scalp and neck, Vincent allowed himself the indulgence of imagining how he could take control of his inevitable demise. This wasn’t his first time he contemplated suicide. He’d bought a gun a few years back without telling his wife and kept it hidden in his closet. Once, when she was out of town with the girls, he pulled it out and went so far as to put the barrel to his temple. But the second he felt the cold metal touch his skin, he knew that he wouldn’t have the guts to go through with something so . . . final. It was the same story that had played out throughout his life: braver than some, just not brave enough to get where he wanted to go.
That had been an extreme low point, enough for him to seek out a therapist. The initial conversations had been helpful—it felt nice to have someone to talk to about day-to-day stresses, but he never felt comfortable sharing anything deeper. Those sessions quickly began to feel transactional, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this doctor spent more time regurgitating talking points from their previous meetings than trying to develop any strategies conducive to a breakthrough. He felt himself growing increasingly withdrawn and irritable during their conversations and eventually decided to stop showing up altogether.
This frustrating experience further solidified his cynical view of psychology writ large, while simultaneously making him feel like a failure. As much as he knew that it wasn’t his fault, the aftermath caused him to sink deeper into the darkness that was beginning to swallow him whole. Maybe today’s the day, he thought, then waited for that other voice in his head to speak up.
But today that voice wasn’t there. Inside his head there was only silence.
Normally when that happened, he’d become uncomfortable and create noise by throwing himself into a new project or starting an argument with Lisa about something inconsequential. Today was different. Today, for some inexplicable reason, Vincent felt calm. Resolute.
Maybe it’s finally time to take control. Time to end all this pain. On my terms, he thought before turning the shower knob and grabbing a towel.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and gently woke Lisa from her slumber with a kiss on her forehead, hoping that when she looked back on this day, she would remember this tiny expression of love.
He continued to drift through the rest of his morning routine in a haze, systematically dressing for work like he did on any other day. He was finishing tightening his tie—all the way under his collar and completely straight per usual—when he looked up and made eye contact with his reflection in the bedroom vanity. Who was this weary person staring back at him? In his mind, he remained a vibrant twenty-five-year-old kid full of energy—in appearance, at least—and he always found it jarring to occasionally catch a glimpse of his middle-aged reflection in a storefront window.
That’s not to say that he wasn’t aging well. He’d always kept himself in good shape, fearing that once he let himself go, it’d be ten times harder to get back to where he started. He still had a full head of hair, an increasingly rare trait among his peers, and the gray patches that had developed around his temples complemented his salt-and-pepper beard.
In fact, just the other day, when she found him staring self-critically in the mirror, Lisa had told him, “You’re looking better than ever as you head into those Clooney years.” But all he saw in his reflection were imperfections. He couldn’t help but fixate on things like the deep wrinkles settling across his forehead, or the burgeoning love handles folding over the sides of his pants. Even his shoulders had started to roll forward ever-so-slightly—cruel evidence that his body was losing its long, slow battle with gravity.
But what bothered him the most was his eyes. For years now he hadn’t recognized the eyes that stared back at him in the mirror. They were tired. Drained from years of self-doubt, regret, and an overall feeling that the life he was meant to live had passed him by.
None of these thoughts were new, but unlike most days, Vincent didn’t feel the unwelcome knot of anxiety growing within his chest. He felt calm, as if none of this mattered anymore. Maybe today is the day, he thought once again. Why else would I feel so disconnected from the thoughts that torture me every other day?
Suddenly Vincent heard Lisa yelling from downstairs, jarring him from his daze. “Viiiiince,” she hollered, “where did you put the new bag of coffee? I can’t find it in the pantry anywhere.”
“It’s the cabinet above the coffee pot!” he yelled back, louder than he intended.
“Ah, found it! Thank you!” Lisa replied, apparently unfazed by his excessively loud reply.
Taking one last look at the stranger in the mirror, Vincent sighed and walked over to his bureau to grab his gym bag. Duffel in hand, he started heading toward the kitchen before turning around, then digging through the back of his closet until his hand grasped the rough, stippled polymer covering the pistol’s handle.
He was greeted on his way down to the kitchen by the sounds of the typical morning chaos. Lisa moved about like a woman possessed, cooking breakfast for everyone all at once while simultaneously packing up school lunches a feat made significantly more complicated since their fifteen-year-old daughter, Violet, had decided she was a vegan. Lisa was positive this was a phase, but despite Violet developing into an almost identical copy of Lisa physically, Vincent knew she was more like him in personality than Lisa would willingly acknowledge. Even if Violet did change her mind, the embarrassment of admitting she was wrong would be enough to keep her stubbornly eating rabbit food for years, maybe decades.
“Mom, when’s breakfast going to be ready?” his youngest daughter, Charlotte, shrieked from the living room. “If we don’t eat soon, we’re going to be late for school, and you know today is the day I get to present my science project at the school fair!”
If Violet was Vincent’s progeny, then little Charlie was Lisa’s through and through. At twelve, she was whip-smart and had already started actively pushing boundaries to find the limits of her power. Her most recent scheme involved getting her classmates to distract their teacher while Charlie commandeered Mrs. Key’s phone, ordered five extra-large Domino’s pizzas—she had apparently memorized Lisa’s credit card information the night before—and returned the phone before her teacher had realized it was missing. An hour later, the delivery guy arrived at the school with their order, and Mrs. Key, confused but not wanting to offend the delivery person, took the pizzas and threw an impromptu pizza party for the class.
If Mrs. Key hadn’t happened to notice an outgoing call to an unrecognized number later that evening, Charlie probably would’ve gotten away with it—a fact she wasn’t shy about highlighting as her parents dealt with the fallout.
Fortunately, Vincent could count on Lisa to step in and lay the hammer down when Charlie got too bold. Vincent could never say no to his baby girl, and Charlie knew it.
“It’s going to be finished soon, honey! Two minutes! And we’re going to get you to school with plenty of time to spare, don’t worry. As long as we’re on the road by seven, we’re golden,” Lisa hollered back. Vincent snuck a quick look at the clock; it was already 6:40. He doubted Lisa could deliver on this promise but was thankful he wouldn’t be the one facing down Charlie’s wrath. Continuing to take stock of the scene in front of him, Vincent realized that Violet wasn’t occupying her typical space on a high-top chair at the far end of the kitchen island.
“Where’s Violet this morning?” he asked, setting his duffel down with a louder than usual thud.
“Whoa, whatcha got in there? A dead body?” Lisa joked. “Violet’s still up in her room, something about her hair. You know how teenagers can get. I’m sure she’ll be down for breakfast.”
“Hmmm, alrighty. Need any help?”
“Nah, I’m almost done. Just grab a seat and relax,” Lisa said, turning her attention back to the stove.
Vincent plopped down and began to scroll through the News app on his phone. This act, which had begun as a pretentious and self-inflicted attempt to be an “informed” member of the public, had over time become one of the most pleasant parts of his day. It was one of the only times he felt like he actually learned new things as an adult, and it was fun to play the “What would I do if I was in charge?” game in his head. But for some reason, today, he couldn’t seem to concentrate. It took him three tries to read the first paragraph of an article that was typically right up his alley; he just couldn’t stop thinking, Who fucking cares what these idiots are doing? None of this matters in the grand scheme of things anyway.
He forced himself to finish the article before switching to social media and mindlessly scrolling through updates. He didn’t really care who’d birthed a pair of twins or who’d tried out the new bar down the road; it was just something to pass the time before he had to switch his mind into work mode.
The clink of his breakfast plate being set down in front of him jolted Vincent from his phone-induced trance. He looked up to say thank you and was surprised to see Lisa trying to suppress a smile. Before he could get a word out, Lisa dropped down and grabbed a gift bag she had been hiding.
“You didn’t think I forgot your birthday, did you?” she said, placing the bag on the island next to his breakfast.
Vincent sat there staring at this unexpected development, unsure of how to react. Neither of them were big gift-givers, and as they got older, it was more common for Lisa to talk about what she would have gotten him rather than actually buying him presents on his birthday. Which, instead of bothering Vincent, became a running inside joke between them.
“Well, hurry up and open it! Quick, before the kids come and ruin the moment!” Lisa whispered eagerly.
Reaching into the oversized bag, Vincent dug through the crinkly gifting paper until his hands wrapped around the edge of what felt like a vinyl record sleeve. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the record out and was astonished to see a mint-condition, unopened copy of Tool’s 1996 masterpiece, Ænima.
“How did you find this?” he gasped.
“A thank you to start off would’ve been nice,” Lisa teased, “but I knew you’d been looking for this for a while, so I did some digging and found a guy selling his copy on eBay. Good timing, I guess.” Lisa shrugged her shoulders—Vincent could see her start to deflate. Too often her first instinct, whether it was gift-giving, cooking a new recipe, or choosing the paint color for the living room, was always to assume she had messed up, and he quickly moved to compensate.
“Wow, thank you,” he stammered. “This is one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever gotten me.”
Lisa lit up.
“It’s a bummer I never really use the record player anymore,” Vincent continued, absentmindedly examining the album artwork.
The brightness in her expression dimmed, and Lisa followed up with a quiet, “There’s a card in there for you too.”
He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. Suddenly aware of his hurtful little throwaway comment, he tried to put some visible enthusiasm into digging for the small card lying flat against the bottom of the gift bag. He pulled it out, opened the envelope, and read the handwritten note on the blank parchment card. Before he could register what he was feeling, his eyes welled up with tears, dutifully held back by tear ducts well trained in the subtle art of keeping his true emotions at bay. Blinking back the tears, Vincent looked up as Lisa walked around the corner of the island to give him a hug. “Happy birthday, baby. I love you,” she whispered.
At that very moment, both girls burst into the kitchen and began frantically grabbing food off the kitchen table while continuing to argue with each other about one of the many pop stars Vincent no longer had the energy to feign interest in.
“Girls,” Lisa said with her usual firmness when signaling something important, “is there anything you’d like to say to your dad?”
After a brief pause, Violet broke the silence. “Oh! Happy birthday, Dad!”
“Yeah! Happy birthday, Daddy!” Charlie echoed.
They both shuffled over to give him a hug, not knowing how much this simple action meant to him. Perhaps enough to make him reconsider the drastic plans that had been floating around his mind all morning? He wasn’t sure, but his family’s unconditional love had tickled awake long-dormant emotions within Vincent, at least temporarily.
“How old are you now? Fifty?” Charlie asked mischievously.
“You’re killin’ me, kid,” Vincent fired back, doing his best to seem playful. “I’m only forty-five!”
“Whatever, age is just a number anyway, right?” Violet offered, in what he perceived to be a valiant—and very sweet—attempt to save his ego.
“That’s right, V,” Vincent said, forcing a smile.
He brought them both in for one more hug before they disengaged, and the girls resumed their original argument.
A few years ago, this gesture would have filled his heart, but today he barely felt anything at all. While not exactly painful, the absence of connection with his daughters was somehow worse.
They deserve better, he thought, getting up to put his dishes away.
“Are you sure you have to go to work today?” Lisa asked as Vincent finished stashing his silverware in the dishwasher. “You always used to take your birthday off, remember? Like a fun little ‘fuck you’ to the man. It’s not too late, you know—I’m free after I drop the kids off. We could go get massages, or see a movie, or just get a little buzzed up at brunch somewhere. C’mon, let’s do it!”
