I hadn’t spoken to Robert and Margaret in two years. Two years of blessed, carefully maintained silence. The last time I saw them had been in a hospital room at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, three weeks after the explosion. I’d been recovering from the third surgery, the one that finally saved my leg after the infection set in.
They had visited for exactly twenty-three minutes. I knew because I’d watched the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until they left.
My mother, Margaret, had spent eighteen of those minutes complaining about the hospital cafeteria coffee, the difficulty of finding parking at Walter Reed, and the general inconvenience of having to drive two hours from their home in suburban Richmond. The other five minutes she’d spent looking at my bandaged leg with a mixture of horror and profound “I told you so” satisfaction, as if my injury was vindication of every warning she’d issued about my “foolish” decision to join the military.
My father, Robert, had stood near the door the entire time, checking his phone, clearly calculating when it would be socially acceptable to leave without looking like a complete monster.
Neither had asked about the blast. Neither had asked about my team. Neither had asked about Daniel.
They’d left without saying “we love you” or “we’re proud of you” or even “get well soon.”
Just: “Call us when you’re discharged. We need to discuss what you’re going to do now that you can’t do that military thing anymore.”
That military thing. Twelve years of service reduced to a dismissive phrase, as if I’d been playing soldier instead of serving my country.
I walked inside, the screen door slamming behind me with a bang that made Knox lift his head briefly before settling back down. I laid the legal papers on the worn oak kitchen table—the table my grandfather, Poppy, had built with his own hands in 1955 from timber he’d milled himself.
I sat down and forced myself to read the fine print, the legal language that tried to make theft sound reasonable.
