“They’re going to see who I became,” I said.
The words sounded stronger than I felt.
The next morning, I called the courthouse.
The clerk confirmed that my parents wanted the property transferred to them on the grounds of abandonment.
“Am I required to appear in person?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That word stayed with me after the call ended.
Abandonment.
My father had used it the day I enlisted.
“You’re abandoning your family,” he had said.
“No, Dad. I’m serving something bigger.”
He never forgave me for saying it.
That afternoon, I drove past the farmhouse.
The oak tree in front was half dead.
Paint peeled from the siding in long curls.
The porch sagged lower than I remembered, and weeds had pushed through the gravel near the side gate.
My grandfather had built that house with his own hands.
I remembered following him through the rooms as a child while he carried a pencil behind one ear and measured boards twice before cutting them.
