“I’m calling an ambulance for my mother,” he said in a voice that was terrifyingly calm. “And then, Susan, I’m going to make sure you understand exactly what you’ve done.”
He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to. The man she had sent off to war was gone; the man who came back was someone who knew exactly how to handle an enemy. Susan realized in that moment that her comfortable, pampered life was over.
Mike pulled out his phone—the old, cracked one he’d kept through the tour. He dialed 911. He gave the address and reported elder abuse and domestic imprisonment, his voice steady as if he were calling in a sit-rep.
Susan stood there, clutching her arms. She tried to start an apology, but he just held up a hand. “Phone,” he said. She hesitated, clutching her iPhone 15. “Don’t make me ask twice, Susan.” She handed it over. He put it in his pocket.
Then he took her car keys and the house keys from her purse. “You’re staying right here,” he said. “In this beautiful house you built. You’re going to be my guest for a while.”
The paramedics arrived ten minutes later. They were professionals, but even they couldn’t hide their shock when they saw Martha on that expensive bed. Mike told them he’d just returned from deployment and found her like this. He didn’t mention the shed yet—he wanted to deal with that himself.
They stabilized her and put her on a gurney. “She needs to be admitted,” the lead paramedic said. “Severe malnutrition and dehydration. We need to run tests.” “I’m going with her,” Mike said. Susan tried to step forward.
“I should come too, I’m family—” “You stay here,” Mike barked. “You’ve got work to do.”
He watched the ambulance pull away, then went back inside. Susan was crying, but they were the tears of a cornered animal, not a repentant wife. “Mike, please, I just got overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do with her!”
He ignored her. “You got the sheets dirty,” he said, nodding toward the stairs. “Go wash them.” “What? We have a machine—”
“You’re going to wash them by hand, Susan. In the tub. Until they’re as white as they were before my mother laid on them.” She stared at him, thinking it was a joke. It wasn’t.
He followed her into the bathroom. He took a bar of old Fels-Naptha laundry soap from under the sink—something his mother had kept for years. “Use this.” He watched her drop to her knees on the cold marble floor and start scrubbing. He watched her manicured nails break. He watched her cry until she was hyperventilating. He didn’t move.
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