The dining room of the Victorian house on Elm Street was a masterpiece of warmth and exclusion. Golden light spilled from the crystal chandelier, illuminating the roast duck, the crystal wine glasses, and the laughter of my son-in-law, Brad, and his mother, Mrs. Halloway.

From where I stood in the kitchen, the warmth was just a concept. The air back here was cold, smelling of dish soap and the lingering grease of the meal I had just cooked for them.

“Brad, darling, this duck is divine,” Mrs. Halloway cooed, her voice carrying easily through the swinging door. “Though the skin could be crispier. I suppose one can’t expect perfection from free help.”

“She tries, Mother,” Brad laughed, the sound wet with expensive Merlot. “Mom! Bring out the gravy boat. You forgot it.”

I picked up the silver boat, my hands steady. They were old hands, veined and spotted with age, but they didn’t shake. They hadn’t shaken in thirty years, not since my second tour in Kandahar.

I pushed through the door.

“Here you are,” I said softly, placing the gravy on the table.

I made to pull out the empty chair next to Brad—the one usually reserved for guests.

Mrs. Halloway cleared her throat. A sharp, ugly sound.

“Evelyn,” she said, not looking at me but at her napkin. “We’re discussing family matters. Private matters. Brad’s promotion. Why don’t you eat in the kitchen? There’s plenty of skin left on the carcass.”

I looked at Brad. My daughter, Sarah, was working a double shift at the hospital. She thought I was living here as a beloved matriarch, helping out while I recovered from a “mild stroke” (a cover story I used for a minor tactical injury). She didn’t know that her husband treated me like an indentured servant. She didn’t know that her mother-in-law treated me like a stray dog.