My name is Major Molly Martin. Thirty-five. Army intelligence. Yesterday, I buried my husband, Staff Sergeant Marcus Coleman—the only man who ever saw the real me beneath the uniform.
Today, I came home expecting silence. Instead, I walked into a hostile takeover.
The front door was ajar. My key didn’t fit. Warning number one. I rang the bell. It chimed cheerfully—a sick joke. The door swung open. Timothy, my brother-in-law, shirtless, crunching chips, looked at me like I was a delivery order.
“Oh. You,” he said, stepping aside.
The living room? Chaos. Boxes stacked high. My belongings being hauled out like I’d already vanished. Raymond, my father-in-law, stood in the middle, clipboard in hand, barking orders like a general in a war he hadn’t earned.
“You’re back sooner than expected,” he said. “We’re proceeding with the transfer.”
Transfer. As if my home were equipment, not my life.
Patricia, my mother-in-law, floated down with my jewelry box, unimpressed. She tossed my wedding photo in the trash. “We’ll keep Marcus’s half,” she said lightly. “He doesn’t need you in the picture anymore.”
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