The image of my departure from our suburban home in Manassas was burned into my retinas. Patricia, my mother-in-law, had not even waited for the rain to start before she began dragging the black plastic lawn bags onto the covered porch. She had handled my uniforms—the dress blues I had worn with pride, the combat boots still stained with the dust of Al-Asad—as if they were soiled rags.
“You’re a liability to his career, Rachel,” Patricia had hissed, her perfectly manicured hand gripping the handle of the screen door. “He’s on track for the junior partnership at the firm. He can’t spend his evenings hauling a crippled wife up the stairs or listening to you scream in your sleep from those nightmares. We need a family here. Not a clinic.”
Daniel had stood three feet behind her, his hands tucked into the pockets of his designer fleece jacket. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He looked at the floor, at his watch, at the rain starting to spot the driveway.
“It’s just for now, Rachel,” he had muttered, his voice devoid of any real conviction. “Until you get your head straight. Until the physical therapy actually sticks. My mother is just helping us transition.”