My heart swelled with pride as I pulled up the long driveway, looking at the stone facade, landscaped lawn, and quiet luxury of the home I had bled for, quite literally, through years of twelve-hour shifts under a sun that didn’t care how tired you already were. I walked up the front porch, set my duffel bag down, and rang the doorbell, already smiling, already imagining the sound of her voice.
A few seconds later, the heavy iron-trimmed oak door swung open. Standing in the doorway was Julian, holding a glass of scotch, wearing a silk robe like he was starring in his own private commercial for a life he hadn’t earned. He looked down his nose at me, taking in my plain jeans, simple cotton shirt, and tired post-flight appearance. Because we had only met briefly once, six years earlier, he didn’t recognize me at all.
