The first thing I heard when I stepped out of the cab was my wife telling our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, that my father had lost his mind.
The second thing I heard was the muffled thud of a fist striking the inside of a locked bedroom door.
Only sixteen hours earlier, I had been strapped into a military transport plane after an eight-month deployment, thinking about the ordinary things I had missed.
Hot coffee in my favorite mug.
Rain against the pavement.
My own bed.
And Abigail running across the lawn when she saw me.
Instead, my wife stood on our wraparound porch in a cream-colored sundress, holding a pitcher of iced tea and speaking to Mrs. Gable with practiced sadness.
Behind Abigail stood a broad-shouldered man in medical scrubs.
“He gets terribly confused,” she was saying. “Sometimes he hurts himself. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what year it is.”
She lowered her voice.
“Marcus is a psychiatric nurse. We’re trying to arrange professional memory care.”
I stopped at the edge of the driveway.
Then I looked toward the second floor.
My father’s blackout curtain moved.
Barely an inch.
Someone was watching.
Abigail turned.
For illustration purposes only
The moment she saw me, something flashed across her face.
Panic.
Then it vanished.
“Sam!”
She put down the pitcher and rushed toward me.
“Oh my God, you’re home early!”
She wrapped her arms around my neck.
I hugged her back.
But her body was rigid.
When Mrs. Gable finally walked away, I looked toward
