"You're home now." She drags me inside, arm hooked through mine like she's afraid I'll disappear. "I'm making pot roast. Mashed potatoes. I've got a pie in the—I've been saving it. For when you?—"
Her voice breaks again.
I squeeze her arm and pretend I don't notice.
The house smells like coffee, lavender, and something baking.
Same furniture, same pictures on the walls.
Me in my uniform. Me at graduation. Me and Gracie at twelve, making faces at the camera, certain the whole world was waiting for us.
We were so young.
Then I see the hospital bed.
It's in what used to be the dining room. Rails on the sides. Buttons to adjust the incline. Medical equipment I recognize from too many field hospitals, equipment that means someone in this house can't make it up the stairs anymore.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
"Mom—"
"In here, soldier girl."
Dad's voice. Coming from the living room.
I follow it on numb legs, leaving my duffel by the door.
He's in a recliner by the window. Afternoon light falls across his face, and I have to lock my knees to keep standing.
He's so thin.
His cheeks have hollowed out since our last video call. His shoulders, once broad enough to carry me on them through the county fair, curve inward now. Diminished.
A cane leans against the chair, and I remember he was in a wheelchair two years ago.
Progress. This is what progress looks like.
"Hey, Dad." My voice comes out wrong. Too tight. Too small.
"Get over here."
I cross to him, lean down for the hug made awkward by his injuries, by the new geography of his body.
He smells like Old Spice and coffee, exactly like he did when I was a kid and he'd carry me to bed after I fell asleep watching movies.
His arms close around me, and they're weaker than they used to be. But they're still his arms.
"You look good," I lie.
"You look like you haven't slept in a month." His hand finds my arm, squeezes with whatever strength he has left. "But you're here. That's what matters."
I sink onto the couch across from him because my legs won't hold me anymore.
The guilt hits in waves.
Five years ago, Dad was in his garage, doing what he'd done every day for thirty years.
Routine job. Easy fix. Something slipped. Something gave.
