My parents sat in the waiting area under fluorescent lights that exposed every crack in their performance.
My father wore a wrinkled polo shirt with a coffee stain near the collar. He looked older than he had at Thanksgiving. My mother had pulled her hair into a limp knot. No pearls. No silk. Just red eyes and a manila folder clutched to her chest.
Two military police officers stood nearby, calm and expressionless.
I opened the inner door but did not invite them through.
“Clara,” my mother said.
Her voice broke on my name as if she had practiced making it sound like love.
I waited.
She pushed the folder forward.
“We’re adding you to the deed. Half the house. Fifty percent. Your father already called the attorney.”
My father nodded quickly without meeting my eyes.
“It’s only fair.”
Fair.
The word sat between us like something rotten.
