I came home for Thanksgiving. The house was freezing. A note on the counter read, “We went on a cruise. You handle Victor.” I found his dying stepfather shivering in the dark. They left him to die, but he opened his eyes and whispered, “They don’t know about help me get revenge when he returned.” “My name is Jenna, 32 years old, an army sergeant. Just returned from 6 months of grueling field training. I drove 3 hours in the snow to make it home for Thanksgiving, but I wasn’t welcomed by my husband’s hug, but by a freezing house and a stench that hit me like a physical blow. On the kitchen counter lay a note.
Mom and I went on a cruise. You take care of Victor. Victor, my terminally ill stepfather, was on the sofa, starving and shivering in his own filth. They left a dying man to sip cocktails at sea using my house savings. They think I’m just a soldier who follows orders. The drive from Fort Bragg had taken longer than expected. The North Carolina winter had decided to arrive early, turning the interstate into a slushy, treacherous mess. But I didn’t care. My hands gripped the steering wheel of my truck, my knuckles white, but my heart was lighter than it had been in half a year. For 6 months, I had been sleeping in mud, eating MREs, and shouting orders over the roar of artillery simulators.
Now all I could think about was a hot shower, a glass of red wine, and Brady. I pictured my husband waiting for me. Brady Mitchell. Even after 5 years, just saying his name made me smile like a school girl. He wasn’t military. He was soft edges and charming smiles. A real estate consultant who spent more time networking at golf courses than selling houses, but I didn’t mind. I was the provider, the protector. That was my role. I just wanted him to be there.
I pulled into the Walmart parking lot just off the highway, joining the chaotic swarm of lastminute holiday shoppers. The automatic doors blasted me with artificial heat and the sound of Mariah Carey, I navigated the aisles with military precision, grabbing a 20 lb butter, ball turkey, a bag of potatoes, and two expensive bottles of Cabernet. I wanted this Thanksgiving to be perfect. I wanted to roast that bird, fill the house with the smell of sage and rosemary, and pretend just for a weekend that we were a normal family.
I even picked up a small carton of peach yogurt for Victor, Brady’s stepfather. I knew the pancreatic cancer had ruined his appetite, but maybe he could keep that down. When I finally turned onto our street, the neighborhood looked like a postcard. The Smiths next door had their inflatable reindeer up. The Johnsons had lined their walkway with candy cane lights. It was warm. It was inviting. But my house was dark. A small nod of anxiety tightened in my stomach.
I told myself Brady was probably just napping. Or maybe he was in the back watching the game. I parked the truck, grabbed the groceries, and unlocked the front door. Brady, I’m home. I called out, kicking the door shut behind me to block the wind. Silence answered me. It wasn’t the peaceful silence of an empty house. It was the heavy oppressive silence of a tomb. And then the cold hit me. I dropped the grocery bags. The bottles of wine clinkedked together, a sharp sound in the quiet.
I could see my breath puffing out in front of me in the entryway light. I walked over to the thermostat on the wall. The screen was blank. I tapped it. System off. Current temp 52° at 52°. Why on earth would the heat be off in November. Brady? I called again, my voice sharper this time, slipping into my command tone. That’s when I smelled it. Underneath the stale cold air, there was something else. Sharp acrid ammonia. It was a smell I knew from field hospitals and bad situations.
The smell of human waste. The knot in my stomach turned into a rock. I dropped my keys and ran toward the living room. Victor. The living room was shadowed, illuminated only by the street lights filtering through the blinds. But I saw him, Victor Harmon, a man who had once commanded a platoon in Vietnam. A man who had stood 6’2 and terrified banking interns with a single glare, was curled up on his old wooden rocking chair. He wasn’t rocking, he was shaking. He was wrapped in a single thin throw blanket, the cheap fleece one Alene my mother-in-law had bought at a discount store. He looked like a skeleton draped in gray skin. His lips were cracked and bleeding dry as parchment.
“Victor,” I whispered, rushing to his side.
I fell to my knees, the cold hardwood biting into my legs. He opened his eyes. They were sunken, surrounded by dark bruises of exhaustion. When he focused on me, a look passed over his face that broke my heart. It was shame. Deep humiliating shame and then relief. Jana, he rasped. His voice sounded like grinding sandpaper.
“Angel?” I touched his forehead.
He was freezing yet clammy. I looked down. The smell was coming from him. His sweatpants were soaked. The puddle beneath the chair had frozen into a sticky mess. He had been sitting in his own urine for God knows how long. I’ve got you, I said, my voice trembling with a rage I hadn’t fully processed yet. I’m here.
I’m not leaving. I stood up, my mind racing through the TCC. Tactical combat casualty care protocols, warmth, fluids, hygiene. I needed to get the heat on. I needed to get him water. I ran to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. That’s when I saw it. On the granite island, right next to the fruit bowl that contained nothing but three rotted bananas was a piece of lined notebook paper. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It was Brady’s scrolled, hurried, careless. I picked it up, my hands shaking so hard the paper rattled.
