I looked at my husband.
“What is this?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
That silence answered more than the list did.
“Ethan.”
He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. “Laura, I can explain.”
“Start with why your mother is sleeping in our bedroom.”
Diane stepped in immediately. “My knees—”
“I asked Ethan.”
The hallway went still.
Ethan looked at his mother, then at me. “She had surgery in January. She needed somewhere without stairs for recovery.”
“Our primary bedroom is upstairs.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“So why is she in it?”
“She was more comfortable there.”
I stared at him.
Nine months overseas had trained me to stay functional through exhaustion, uncertainty, and bad information. But there was something uniquely disorienting about standing in your own foyer while people explained why your bedroom had been reassigned without you.
“How long were they supposed to stay?”
“Six weeks.”
Megan looked toward the floor.
“And how long have they been here?”
Ethan swallowed.
“Seven months.”
I looked at Diane.
She did not appear embarrassed.
“You knew I was coming home.”
“Of course.”
“And you are wearing my robe.”
