“You always were dramatic when you came home in uniform.”
I was not in uniform.
I was in jeans, a black T-shirt, and boots dusty from the long drive from base.
But I understood what she meant.
To Audrey, service was a costume.
To my mother, marriage was property.
And to both of them, Sophia had been alone.
That was their mistake.
They thought alone meant unprotected.
They thought quiet meant weak.
They thought distance meant ignorance.
They thought family meant immunity.
They thought my patience was permission.
I looked past them toward the front window.
Headlights swept across the walls.
One car.
Then another.
Then a third.
My mother’s face changed.
Only a little.
But I saw it.
Audrey turned toward the driveway.
“Who is that?”
I shifted Leo higher against my chest.
“The people you should have been afraid of.”
For six weeks, I had known something was wrong.
