I returned the salute, then lowered my hand to the curve of my stomach.
“At ease,” I said. “I need one secured case from the bedroom and the cardboard box beside the garage door. Nothing else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The soldier signaled to another member of the team, who moved toward the house but stopped before crossing the threshold.
“Permission to enter?” he asked.
The question mattered more than anyone in my family understood.
For months, they had walked through David’s home as if my permission were unnecessary. They had moved furniture, filled closets, invited guests, and argued over rooms without once asking the person whose name was on the title.
Now a uniformed stranger was showing me more respect at my own front door than my family had shown me hours after I buried my husband.
“Permission granted,” I said. “Straight upstairs. First door on the left.”
Harper pushed past my mother.
“What is this?” she demanded. “Some kind of performance?”
The soldier did not look at her.
