“I didn’t destroy your life, Ethan,” I said softly. “You sold it for a house you didn’t earn. Now get out of it.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t. He turned and walked down the hall, shoulders slumped, a ghost haunting a home he used to belong to. I followed him to the front door and made sure he stepped out onto the porch.

The wind howled, blowing cold rain across the threshold. He stood there a moment, looking back at me, waiting for a reprieve that would never come.

I grabbed the heavy brass handle, looked him in the eye, and shut the door. I turned the deadbolt until it clicked.

The immediate aftermath of a war is never quiet. It’s just a different kind of noise.

The first week was a blur of legal paperwork, screaming voicemails from Ethan that I deleted unheard, and the heartbreaking work of unpacking Linda’s memories from the boxes marked TRASH.