"People like me?" I asked when he told me the veterans' hospital had beds for people like me. My voice was trembling, but not from fear. It was from shock, nausea, and something darker that was beginning to surface. "I'm your son."
"You're a burden," he said with that pragmatic coldness that men like him mistake for honesty. "I'm not changing diapers at my age. We've finally got this place the way we wanted it. Turn around and go somewhere else."
The cruelty wasn't feigned. That's what made it even worse. She talked about me like someone talks about a broken washing machine: she only laments it to the extent that something broken might be expensive.
I looked past him into the hallway. There was a welcome sign taped to the mirror, and for a moment my chest lurched before I saw the dog bed underneath and understood. It wasn't for me. Chloe's new puppy was the star of the celebration.
Then my sister appeared behind him, twenty-two years old, radiant and beautiful, with that sophisticated air that required money, time, and the firm conviction that the world should be organized around her convenience. She had an iced coffee in one hand and disdain already reflected on her face. She looked at the chair, then at me, and wrinkled her nose.
"Really?" she said, laughing. "I just remodeled your room. I turned it into a walk-in closet for my shoes. The lighting is amazing. Where did you plan on sleeping? In the hallway?"
For a second I thought I'd misheard her. My room. The room with my old baseball trophies, toy airplanes, the cheap desk where I filled out my enlistment papers at seventeen and kept them hidden from Dad for three days because I knew he'd say I was doing it for attention.
"My room?" I repeated.
"Well, you weren't using it," she said, examining her fingernails as if we were talking about cushions. "And frankly, those wheels are going to ruin the hardwood floor."
Before I could answer, something small came between my father and the frame. Leo. My ten-year-old brother. Slim, bright-eyed, clutching the faded superhero blanket I'd sent him from Germany because he'd once told me on a video call that it helped him sleep during thunderstorms.
"Ethan!" he cried, his face lighting up with a love that adults often lose the ability to feel clearly. He tried to come to me, but Dad grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled so hard that the boy stumbled.
