The house looked smaller than Ethan remembered. He stood on the cracked driveway.
His 5-year-old son Cameron pressed against his leg and stared at the two-story colonial that had belonged to his parents. The white paint was peeling near the shutters. The front step sagged slightly on the left side, and the maple tree in the yard had grown so tall its branches now scraped the roof during windstorms.
Everything was familiar and foreign at the same time, like looking at an old photograph of yourself and not quite recognizing the person staring back. “Daddy, is this our house now?” Cameron asked, his small voice cutting through the afternoon stillness. Ethan looked down at his son, all dark curls and wide brown eyes, clutching a stuffed elephant that had seen better days. “Yeah, buddy.
This is home.” The word felt strange in his mouth. home. He’d spent the last seven years calling anywhere with a cot and a foot locker home. Forward operating bases in Afghanistan, temporary barracks in Germany, a cramped apartment in Colorado Springs that had never felt like anything except a place to sleep between deployments.
And then after the divorce, a series of extended stay motel while the lawyers sorted out custody and he tried to figure out how to be a single father to a kid who barely knew him. Home was supposed to mean something different now. It had to. Mr. Walker. Ethan turned to see the moving company supervisor approaching with a clipboard.
A tired looking man in his 50s with sweat stains under his arms despite the cool October air. We’ve got everything unloaded, the man said. Just need your signature here. Ethan scrolled his name across the form, barely glancing at the itemized list. He didn’t own much. furniture from his parents’ estate that had been in storage.
Boxes of Cameron’s things from his ex-wife’s house, his own military gear and civilian clothes that fit into two duffel bags. Everything he owned in the world, and it didn’t even fill half the truck. “You need help getting settled?” the supervisor asked, not unkindly. “No, we’re good. Thank you.” The man nodded and headed back to the truck.
Ethan watched it pull away, taking with it the last connection to his old life. Once the diesel rumble faded, the neighborhood settled into the kind of quiet that only existed in small towns. Birds singing, distant lawnmowers, the occasional car passing with unhurried purpose. Maple Ridge hadn’t changed. Population 8,000, one main street, two churches, a diner that still served breakfast all day, and enough gossip to fuel a dozen lifetimes.
