Mike Sullivan had been counting down the days for a year. Returning home after his tour of duty was all he thought about. He pictured pulling into the driveway, hugging his mother on the porch, and seeing the spot in the backyard where his father planned to build the new workshop.
Simple things. The smell of home. His mom’s cooking. Mike had no idea that while he was away, everything had changed. His parents had been careful during their brief phone calls, hiding the truth behind phrases like “everything’s fine” and “don’t you worry about us.” He was about to learn that “fine” can sometimes mean the exact opposite, and that coming home isn’t always the celebration you imagined.
Mike gripped the envelope in his pocket. Inside was $10,000—every cent he’d managed to save from his combat pay and allowances over the last year. The Uber driver was rambling about the new highway construction, but Mike barely heard him.
Outside the window, the familiar sights of his hometown rolled by: the rusted fence of the old mill, the giant oak tree at the corner of Maple Street, and Miller’s General Store with its faded sign. He’d been gone a year. A long, hard year.
— “Just getting back from overseas?” — the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
— “Yeah,” — Mike replied shortly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
— “Bet it’s good to be back in the States. Rough over there?”
— “It had its moments.”
Mike reached for his phone, then hesitated. He wanted to call his parents and tell them he was five minutes away, but he wanted it to be a surprise. He could already see his mom’s face lighting up. His dad would just give a firm nod, but his eyes would say everything.
Mike smiled at the thought. The car slowed down as they turned onto his street. He checked his phone: three missed calls from his mom last night. He’d been in transit and his battery had died.
He’d texted her this morning: “Heading home, see you today.” She’d replied with a simple “Okay.” No emojis, no “Love you,” which was strange for her. He figured she was just overwhelmed with the news.
— “Do your folks know you’re coming?” — the driver asked as he turned onto the Sullivans’ block.
— “They know.”
Mike checked the envelope one last time. Ten grand. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to help his dad finally fix the roof or upgrade the old furnace that had been acting up for years.
They passed the neighbors’ houses. The Petersons had a new fence. Mrs. Gable’s garden was overgrown. Everything looked the same, yet slightly off.
One more turn. He expected to see the blue shutters his dad had painted five years ago. The slightly crooked garage door. The row of hydrangeas by the gate. The car rounded the corner.
Mike saw them immediately. Two people were sitting on the curb in front of the house. Suitcases were piled next to them—the old, battered luggage that usually lived in the attic. His mother was huddled against his father, her shoulders shaking. His father had his arm around her, his head bowed low.
For a second, Mike’s brain stalled. The image didn’t make sense. Two people on a curb. Suitcases. Then he recognized his father’s old Carhartt jacket. His mother’s red cardigan—the one he’d bought her for her birthday three years ago.
— “Stop! Pull over right here!” — Mike barked.
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