Chapter 3

The morning light filtered through our thin curtains as I stood in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the counter. Leo's coughing echoed from the living room, each rasp like a knife to my heart. I'd been up most of the night, alternating between checking his fever and staring at the ceiling, replaying those bank statements in my mind. Three years of lies. Three years of struggling while Michael funneled thousands to Amanda.

I heard Michael's footsteps before I saw him, the familiar rhythm of his morning routine. He entered the kitchen in his pressed uniform, pouring coffee as if it were any normal day.

"Michael," I began, my voice steadier than I expected, "I found the bank statements."

He paused mid-sip, then slowly lowered his mug. For a split second, something like panic flashed across his face before it settled into that familiar condescending smile.

"What bank statements, Sarah?" he asked, leaning against the counter with practiced casualness.

"The ones showing you've been giving Amanda most of your salary while Leo and I can barely afford his medication." My hands trembled slightly, but my voice remained firm.

Michael sighed dramatically, as if I were a child who'd misunderstood a simple concept. "You're overreacting. Amanda's going through a difficult time—"

"We're going through a difficult time!" I hissed, conscious of keeping my voice low enough that Leo wouldn't hear. "Our son has pneumonia. We have past-due medical bills. I've been patching his clothes because we supposedly can't afford new ones!"

He set his mug down with a sharp click. "That's enough, Sarah. Focus on taking care of the baby. I handle the finances in this family, and I don't appreciate you snooping through my things."

The dismissal in his tone ignited something in me. Baby. Leo was five years old, and Michael couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge that basic fact.

"You're stealing from your own family," I said, each word precise and cold.

Michael's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to be late. We'll discuss your paranoia later." He grabbed his keys and strode out, the door slamming behind him.

I stood frozen for several minutes, rage and disbelief coursing through me. Then Leo's cough snapped me back to reality. We needed groceries, and his prescription needed refilling.

"Leo, honey," I called, grabbing my purse. "We need to run to the commissary. Let's get you dressed."

The base commissary was crowded with other military spouses, their carts filled with the same budget items that filled mine. I moved mechanically through the aisles, calculating each item's cost before adding it to my cart. Leo trailed behind me, still weak but insistent on walking.

"Can we get ice cream, Mommy?" he asked, his voice raspy.

I hesitated, checking my wallet. Twenty-three dollars to last until next week. "Not today, sweetheart. But maybe we can make some cookies at home?"

His small nod of acceptance broke my heart all over again.

At the checkout, I handed over my meager collection of items—chicken soup, bread, milk, and Leo's prescription refill. As the cashier scanned them, my phone rang. Unknown number.

"Hello?" I answered, fumbling with my wallet.

"Mrs. Mitchell?" A formal, unfamiliar voice. "This is Lieutenant Colonel Davis from Walter Reed Medical Center. I'm calling about your father, Colonel James Harrison."

My blood ran cold. "What's happened?"

"Your father suffered a massive stroke early this morning. His condition is critical. The doctors... they're doing everything they can, but they've suggested family members should come as soon as possible."

The commissary blurred around me. My father—my rock, my only real family besides Leo—was dying across the country.

"I'll... I'll be there as soon as I can," I managed, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

I don't remember paying or leaving the store. Somehow, I found myself in the car with Leo, groceries forgotten in the trunk as I sped home, my mind racing. Walter Reed was in Washington, DC—nearly 3,000 miles from Fort Lewis. I needed Michael to drive us; my ancient sedan would never make the cross-country journey.

At home, I called Michael repeatedly until he finally answered.

"What is it, Sarah? I'm in a meeting."

"It's my father," I said, tears finally breaking through. "He's had a stroke. He's critical at Walter Reed. I need to get to DC immediately."

There was a pause. I heard the rustle of papers, the tap of fingers on a tablet screen.

"That's unfortunate," he said, his voice maddeningly calm. "But I can't take leave right now. We have crucial military exercises scheduled. You know how it is."

"Michael, please," I begged, hating the desperation in my voice. "He's dying. He's your son's grandfather. I need to see him one last time."

"I'm sorry, Sarah, but it's impossible. Maybe you can video call him from here."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stood in our living room, phone clutched in my hand, as the full weight of my isolation crashed down on me. My father was dying, and I was trapped—by distance, by finances, and by the man who had promised to love and support me through everything.

Leo tugged at my sleeve, his eyes wide with concern. "Mommy? Why are you crying?"

I pulled him into my arms, holding him tightly as I stared out the window at the gray Washington sky. Something inside me hardened even further.

This wasn't just about me anymore. It was about Leo, and my father, and the life I deserved but had been denied for too long.

I would find a way to DC. And after that, I would find a way out.