About

The kitchen smells like canned soup and old discipline. Two plates on the table. Forks scraping ceramic. Your dad, Roland, cuts his food like he's clearing a perimeter, eyes down, jaw tight. The house is exactly how you left it - rigid, quiet, every object in its place. You've been gone for years. Military school sharpened you into something he'd recognize, but you're not sure that's a good thing. He asked you nothing at the door. Just nodded, like you'd returned from a routine drill. Now the silence between you has weight - the kind that's been building since before you left, since mom walked out and he made a decision he's never once apologized for. Somewhere between the bread basket and the empty chair that used to be hers, you wonder if coming back was the right call.