My father stepped over the threshold without unbuttoning his raincoat.

He kept his heels planted squarely on the entry rug, his expression completely flat as he held Noah steady against his neck.

“We’re here to collect Camila and Noah’s belongings,” my father said in his quiet, measured voice.

Linda smoothed the front of her cardigan, her eyes flicking briefly to the small brass military pin on my father’s lapel before returning to his face.

“Of course,” Linda said, her voice strained and artificially soft.