“I give the orders here,” my mom’s colonel boyfriend yelled—until I calmly told him who I really was.

I shook off my umbrella, smoothed down my wet hair, a practical pixie cut that had served me well at sea, and unlocked the door. I expected the smell of baking. My mother, Maggie, always baked when she knew I was coming home. apple pie or maybe her cinnamon casserole. Instead, I was hit by a wall of stale air.

It smelled like cheap menthol cigarettes and old spice applied too heavily to cover up the scent of sweat. Is that you, Maggie? Bring me a beer while you’re up. A voice boomed from the living room. It wasn’t a question. It was a command. I walked into the living room, water dripping from my coat onto the hardwood floor. The TV was blaring. Fox Sports. Volume turned up to 50.

And there, occupying the sanctuary of my father’s old leather recliner, was a man I had never met. He was large, taking up the entire chair. He wore a pastel yellow polo shirt tucked tightly into khaki shorts, highlighting a stomach that had seen too many backyard barbecues. He didn’t stand up when I entered. In the south, a gentleman stands when a lady enters the room.

In the military, a subordinate stands when a superior enters. This man did neither. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering judgmentally on my plain rain jacket, my lack of makeup, and my sensible travel shoes. “You must be the daughter,” he said, shifting his weight, but keeping his feet firmly planted on the coffee table, my mother’s antique coffee table.

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