Bathroom rotation.
Then another line: “Work-related excuses” were disruptive.
My fingers tightened around the page.
I kept reading until I reached rule three.
The primary bedroom had been assigned to Diane because of her knees. I was expected to sleep downstairs in the office.
For several seconds, I just stood there, hearing the television murmuring from the bedroom where I had slept before deployment.
Then I reached rule four.
“$900 monthly household contribution,” I read aloud.
Diane folded her arms.
I looked up slowly. “You’re charging me rent?”
“It’s not rent,” she said. “It’s contribution.”
“In my house.”
Her expression barely changed.
Before she could answer, the garage door rumbled open.
Every muscle in my body went still.
Footsteps entered from the garage, followed by the rustle of grocery bags. Ethan appeared carrying food in both hands.
He saw me.
And froze.
I had imagined this moment countless times overseas. I had imagined surprise, relief, maybe even tears. I had pictured him dropping whatever he was holding and crossing the room before I could say a word.
But there was no joy on his face.
There was fear.
His eyes moved from me to his mother, then to the laminated sheet in my hand.
I lifted it between us.
“What is this?”
No one answered.
And in the silence that followed, I realized the rules were only the beginning of what had changed while I was gone. 👇
Ethan set the grocery bags on the floor so carefully that the milk did not even shift.
His eyes stayed on the laminated sheet in my hand.
Diane folded her arms.
Megan lifted my blue mug to her mouth again.
