The stone pressed cold against my lower back.
He stood close enough that I could see the tiny blood vessels in his eyes and smell Merlot beneath the same suffocating cologne he had worn for thirty years.
The smell carried me backward.
Invoices pushed under my bedroom door.
Relatives being told I was difficult to love.
Years of hearing that I was the defective product in his family.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Has your commander received my letters yet? Sign the paper giving up the house and I’ll withdraw the complaint. If not, I’ll have you court marshaled. Where is a lowly grunt like you going to get the money to fight me?”
He let the final question hang.
He wanted me to calculate.
His legal budget against my annual salary.
He wanted me to feel small.
Outgunned.
Cornered.
Twelve years old again, sitting at the dinner table while Lauren received jewelry and I received a bill.
