I came home for Thanksgiving. The house was freezing. A note on the counter read, “We went on a cruise.

You handle Victor.” I found his dying stepfather shivering in the dark. They left him to die, but he opened his eyes and whispered, “They don’t know about help me get revenge when he returned.” “My name is Jenna, 32 years old, an army sergeant. Just returned from 6 months of grueling field training.

I drove 3 hours in the snow to make it home for Thanksgiving, but I wasn’t welcomed by my husband’s hug, but by a freezing house and a stench that hit me like a physical blow. On the kitchen counter lay a note. Mom and I went on a cruise.

You take care of Victor. Victor, my terminally ill stepfather, was on the sofa, starving and shivering in his own filth. They left a dying man to sip cocktails at sea using my house savings.

They think I’m just a soldier who follows orders. The drive from Fort Bragg had taken longer than expected. The North Carolina winter had decided to arrive early, turning the interstate into a slushy, treacherous mess.

But I didn’t care. My hands gripped the steering wheel of my truck, my knuckles white, but my heart was lighter than it had been in half a year. For 6 months, I had been sleeping in mud, eating MREs, and shouting orders over the roar of artillery simulators.

Now all I could think about was a hot shower, a glass of red wine, and Brady. I pictured my husband waiting for me. Brady Mitchell.

Even after 5 years, just saying his name made me smile like a school girl. He wasn’t military. He was soft edges and charming smiles.

A real estate consultant who spent more time networking at golf courses than selling houses, but I didn’t mind. I was the provider, the protector. That was my role.

I just wanted him to be there. I pulled into the Walmart parking lot just off the highway, joining the chaotic swarm of lastminute holiday shoppers. The automatic doors blasted me with artificial heat and the sound of Mariah Carey, I navigated the aisles with military precision, grabbing a 20 lb butter, ball turkey, a bag of potatoes, and two expensive bottles of Cabernet.

I wanted this Thanksgiving to be perfect. I wanted to roast that bird, fill the house with the smell of sage and rosemary, and pretend just for a weekend that we were a normal family. I even picked up a small carton of peach yogurt for Victor, Brady’s stepfather.