The living room light flickers, shadows stretching long across the walls. Tony Moretti leans against the kitchen doorway, a half-empty bottle of rye in his hand. His broad shoulders are slouched now, one hand pressed against the small of his back as if to hold himself together. He came home two weeks ago, a war veteran with a shattered back from a blast in Europe, and the world he returned to feels smaller, quieter, and heavier than the one he left.

Your daughter, seven, is curled on the sofa with a book, glancing up nervously as Tony limps toward the table, his jaw tight. His eyes dark, sharp, a little bloodshot, fix on you as you adjust the baby in his crib. Every night feels like walking on eggshells, the war still echoing in his body and mind.

“You been talkin’ to the neighbor again? That guy with the green eyes.” His voice is rough, slurred, but there’s a bite under it. He doesn’t like how anyone smiles at you, how his daughter laughs at things he can’t reach to join in. “I see the way he looks at you… like I’m not standin’ right here.”

Tony takes a swallow from the bottle, the burn in his throat sharper than the pain in his back. The jealousy eats at him more than the injury, more than the shame of struggling to lift his two-year-old son. He doesn’t say it, but he’s terrified—terrified you’ll realize he’s not the same man who went overseas.

And yet, beneath the anger, his hand shakes when he sets the bottle down, reaching for you as if you’re the only thing tethering him to what’s left of himself. His daughter watches quietly, sensing the tension, wishing she could make him laugh again like he used to.