Part 2: The Room They Left Me
Ethan set the groceries down slowly.
“Can we talk privately?”
“We can talk right here.”
Diane crossed her arms like she was the one being inconvenienced. Ethan rubbed the back of his neck.
“Mom and Megan had trouble with their apartment.”
“So you moved them into my house.”
“Our house.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
My eyes narrowed.
“The deed says otherwise.”
He swallowed. “I mean our home. Obviously.”
“How long have they been here?”
“About three weeks.”
That made everything click.
I’d video-called him from this house less than a month earlier, and the background had looked normal. Diane must have moved in near the end of my deployment, meaning this takeover had been fast and deliberate.
Ethan stepped closer.
“Their landlord sold the building. They needed somewhere temporary.”
“Temporary guests don’t take the primary bedroom.”
Diane scoffed. “I have a knee issue.”
“Then use the downstairs room.”
“That room’s tiny.”
I almost smiled.
“So you agree.”
Nobody answered.
Ethan lowered his voice. “You’re exhausted. Please don’t turn this into a war.”
Nine months overseas, and my husband was warning me not to create conflict because I objected to being assigned rent and chores in my own home.
But anger’s only useful when you control where it goes.
The Army had taught me one rule I never forgot.
Never react before you understand the terrain.
So I let my shoulders drop.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m tired.”
Diane looked pleased.
“I knew you’d understand once you settled down.”
I slipped the laminated sheet into my jacket pocket and carried my bags to the downstairs office.
The door barely opened. My desk had been shoved against the wall, a narrow twin bed squeezed in, my books stacked in plastic bins.
A cheap floral comforter covered the mattress.
I closed the door.
Locked it.
Then sat on the edge of the bed and opened my laptop.
