The house still smelled of lemon polish and baked ham. The porch swing still tilted crookedly in the breeze. My father opened the door, looked me up and down,
and said, “So, you’re still alive.”
No hug. No hand resting on my shoulder. Nothing.
Inside, my brother’s deployment photo stood on the mantel. Caitlyn’s Navy portrait had a light of its own. My father’s command photograph hung above the
fireplace beside medals, plaques, and certificates polished until they shone.
There wasn’t a single picture of me.
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