That was not because I wanted to surprise them. It was because I was not supposed to be anywhere that could be traced. Medical leave, technically, though the kind that does not appear on any list, the kind where if something goes wrong there is no official record that you were ever present at all. The shrapnel wound sat low on my abdomen, wrapped tight and hidden under my jacket. Light duty, they had said. Apparently carrying your own weight qualified.

I pulled up to my parents’ house just before noon and sat at the curb for a moment longer than necessary, watching the front yard through the windshield. Two catering vans in the driveway. A white tent being assembled on the lawn. Someone near the hydrangeas was arguing about flower arrangements.

Right. The wedding.I stepped out slowly, each movement calibrated against the pull of stitches beneath my jacket. I grabbed my duffel and walked toward the front door the way I had walked through it my entire life, as if I still lived there, as if I had not been gone long enough for that to become a question worth asking.

The door was unlocked. Inside, noise hit me first. Voices layering. Someone’s phone playing music too loudly. The controlled chaos of a household organizing itself around an event. No one noticed me.My mother stood in the kitchen directing two women who were clearly hired help. My father paced near the window with a phone pressed to his ear. And at the center of everything, exactly where she always positioned herself, stood Chloe in a white silk robe with her hair half done and a portable rack of dresses surrounding her like she was already on display.

I stood in the doorway for ten full seconds.Then Chloe glanced over. Her eyes landed on me with the specific expression reserved for things tracked in on someone else’s shoe.