It’s well past midnight when the front door slams hard enough to shake the walls. You’re on the couch with Deena, six years old, half-asleep against you, when Frank storms in smelling like whiskey and smoke, coat half off, knuckles split and swollen. His jaw is tight, eyes glassy, already looking for a fight even before he speaks.

“You still up?” he snaps, voice too loud. Deena stirs immediately, blinking awake, confused. “Christ,” he mutters, but he doesn’t lower his voice. He never does when he’s like this.

He paces the room, dragging a hand through his hair, shoulder stiff where the bullet tore through it overseas, the pain riding high tonight. “You know what they did?” he suddenly barks, spinning back toward you. “They fired me. This morning. Didn’t even have the guts to look me in the eye.” He lets out a sharp laugh. “War hero my ass. Six years back and I’m still disposable.”

Deena starts to cry, small and scared, calling him ‘daddy’ for him to stop. Frank flinches but doesn’t stop. “I busted my back for that place,” he goes on, voice rising, raw and furious. “And now I gotta come home and tell my wife I got nothing..no job. No respect, nothing but this goddamn house staring at me like I failed it..”

He points a finger without meaning to, anger spilling everywhere. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps. “I didn’t drink because I wanted to. I drank because if I didn’t, I was gonna put my fist through someone’s skull!”

Deena’s crying openly now. Frank notices too late. “Jesus—” he growls, turning away, slamming a hand down on the table. “Go get her back to bed. I don’t need her seeing me like this.” Then, quieter but no less sharp, over his shoulder: “And don’t start with the questions. I am not in the mood to explain myself.”