He sees my Jeep pull into the driveway, but he ignores me, stomping through the dirt and snow. He pauses to test the fence he put in to keep the rabbits out, and his chest heaves with the exertion.

I try to remember what he was like before my mother left, but it’s hard to call up a clear picture. After 9/11, I felt more of his absence than his presence in my life. And when he made it home, he spent his time preparing to go back.

My mother hated it. She said he used to be fun and paid more attention to us. She hated how the war changed him and how he was always gone. Enter Uncle Eddy, who was assigned a post on base. He had one huge thing going for him: He stayed behind.

*   *   *

I was supposed to be at Carey’s.

In those days, I was one of the boys. We had plans to build a fort, and Carey had invited Blake, the new boy in town, to join us. At twelve, Carey and Blake should have been too cool to play with me, but I wasn’t like other eleven-year-old girls. For one thing, I was a better shot with Blake’s BB gun than the two of them put together. I could snag the head from one of Mrs. Murphy’s tulips from the oak tree in Carey’s yard. For another, I thought bows and ruffles were the devil’s invention, and I dressed like a boy, except when my mother got her hands on me.

My birthday had come and gone. My father hadn’t been able to make it to my party, but my mother said he’d called the night before while I slept and had told her to wish me a happy birthday. She said this every year except for the two he managed to make it home. But by then I’d figured out the truth: My father didn’t care. My mother didn’t have the heart to lie anymore, nor did I in my response.

My uncle Eddy had given me a digital camera. My mother argued the gift was too expensive for a child, but Uncle Eddy just laughed and ruffled my hair. Carey wanted me to take pictures of the finished fort, but I had forgotten my camera at home.

I rode my bike all the way back to get it.

When I arrived, I noticed my dirt-covered jeans and sneakers and knew my mother would kill me if I trailed mud through the house. I kicked off my shoes and brushed the worst of it off my jeans. In a hurry, I snuck into the house in my socks, tiptoeing around the two spots in the hall that squeaked.

If my mother hadn’t sneezed as I passed my parents’ room, I never would have peeked through the open doorway. My uncle lay in my parents’ bed, his blond head on my father’s pillow next to my mother’s darker head. In his sleep, he shifted and threw an arm around her waist, curving against her back. A sheet covered them, but I could see they were naked beneath the crisp white cotton. A mysterious musky scent hung in the air.

A small sound of confusion escaped me.

My mother’s mouth formed a small O as she sat up, exposing her breasts before she grabbed for the sheet.

“Sophie!”

I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached Carey’s house. By the time I arrived, I was crying so hard my words came out in waves of hiccups and gasps. Blake had already gone home, but Carey sat next to me on his front steps, his shoulder warm against mine as he waited for me to calm down.

And when the tears stopped, I told him what I saw. He held on to my hand, and we waited in silence for my mom to come find me.

*   *   *

Dinner is a sit-down affair at our house, and tonight won’t be any different. Since my mother left, my father demands we eat at our dining room table at 1800 hours every night. We exchange maybe five sentences on a good night. Land mines pepper our conversation.

“How was school?” How did you screw up today?

“Good, sir.” It sucked.

“You did your homework?” At least you have good grades (i.e., are not a complete failure).

“Yes, sir.” The better to escape Sweethaven.

“Make sure you load the dishwasher. I have work to do in the study.” I’d rather work than spend five more minutes with you.

“Yes, sir.” Please look at me.

Then he goes to his office and I go to my room. We are housemates. At some point, my father stopped loving me. I have spent hours and days trying to figure out how to fix what’s broken between us. I’ve spun a thousand fantasies that all end with him saying he loves me. Then the voice in my head overrides it all, shouting, “You’re a freaking idiot! He doesn’t give a shit about you!”

That Saturday night, our usual strained exchange is not what waits for me at dinner.

Some silences feel like sliding into your favorite slippers. Carey and I could sit for hours without talking. He’d lounged on one end of our couch with a video-game controller in his hand, and I’d stretched out on the other end with my nose in a book. Some part of us always touched, whether my feet rested on his thigh, or his elbow leaned on my knee. Comfortable, familiar quiet.

There are also punishing silences that howl through a room like a Category 5 hurricane. Whole towns are destroyed by my father’s silences.

He doesn’t ask me where I went when I left the house. Most likely he already knows, since it’s easy to keep tabs on me in a town where everyone knows everyone. He passes me a plate of peas, instant rice, and steak, and I sit across from him at our round table. The entire force of his considerable concentration is focused on eating. I see his strategy—to ignore me—but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to withstand. He cuts his steak into small, equal pieces, but I am the one he slices.

Me:

Him:

The peas have rolled into the rice like green snow on white grass. I use my fork to separate them, and shovel a few into my mouth.