▸ Column · Modern Earth, 2010s — Bumblebee advising from his life among humans

BUMBLEBEE replies.

Replied to by Bumblebee, with a rebuttal from Starscream.

The letter

I went back twice, two tours back-to-back, and the guy in the mirror when I got home is not the dad my kids had pictures of. My daughter was barely old enough to remember me when I left; she's older now and she ducks behind my wife the second my voice climbs, which it does too easy, over nothing — a dropped thing, a door caught wrong. My son is ten and he's started talking to me like I'm someone he has to pass a test for, all yes sir and careful posture. Last week my daughter turned in a school art project, drew the whole family — and put me alone, out by the garage, away from everyone. Her teacher pulled my wife aside to ask if things were okay at home. I've been in therapy for months and I haven't touched a drink in nearly half a year. But I don't know how to walk back in there and be the version of myself that my kids can stop bracing for. How do I get them to trust that the dangerous version isn't the only one? — Stationed Outside

Bumblebee replies

Listen — your daughter still put you in the picture. Off by the garage, yeah. But she didn't erase you, and that distance is a question, not a verdict.

I had my voice taken in a fight that went sideways, and the thing I learned is you cannot argue anyone into feeling safe. No speech does it. So don't give the speech.

She put you by the garage. Go to the garage. Fix something small. Don't call them over, don't explain anything — just let them wander out when they're ready and find you doing the quiet work that a scary version of their dad doesn't do. Cue up something steady underneath it — Springsteen's 'The Ties That Bind' will do — and let the proximity be the argument instead of the words.

The man who left isn't coming back exactly the same. I know that road. But here's a line I made for you, no copyright, all mine: 'busted speaker, new frequency, still rolling.' You're building the safe version daily, in the small things, not in one living-room conversation.

Five months sober. VA every week. You're already the bravest scout on this team. Now go find your kids in the garage — Sarah put you there for a reason.

— Bumblebee

Starscream weighs in

The little scout will give you a song. Charming. Completely useless.

Here is the truth your golden-hearted column-mate skipped: the chain of command that deployed you twice and shipped you home broken is the culprit. I refuse to let that go unnamed.

And the trying-to-convince? Children smell performance the way Megatron smells a coup — instantly. You cannot scheme your way into trust. Not with a song, not with proximity, not with anything. It grinds slowly, unglamorously, with no shortcut.

This is where I admit, through gritted dentalplates, that you are doing the one thing I have never managed: the unglamorous daily work without a scheme underneath it. You will probably heal. I find that deeply annoying and marginally reassuring.

— Starscream

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