I had barely stepped out of the taxi before I saw them.
My father and my older brother, Chad, stood on my front porch like they belonged there, like two men guarding a prize they’d already pocketed. They weren’t surprised to see me. They looked pleased. Chad’s mouth pulled into that lazy, sideways smirk he’d worn since high school whenever he thought he’d gotten one over on someone. My father’s stance was solid and stubborn, arms folded across his chest, chin lifted, as if he were the injured party.
The taxi pulled away, tires whispering over the street. The sound faded, leaving late afternoon quiet in its place, broken only by a distant dog barking and the soft rasp of wind through the trees.
My seabag cut into my shoulder through the fabric of my blouse. The olive drab canvas felt like home in a way my own neighborhood suddenly didn’t. My desert combat boots were still dusted with that fine red grit from Okinawa, ground so deep into the seams no amount of scrubbing on the plane could get it out. I stood at the edge of the driveway I’d resurfaced myself three summers ago, staring at the house I’d bought eight years earlier with a VA home loan and rebuilt room by room on leave weekends, on nights when everyone else rested, on mornings when my hands were raw and my knees ached.
