My mother, Evelyn, was standing at the bottom of the stairs in a cream-colored cardigan I’d never seen before, holding a mug of coffee. She looked at me and then at the open trash bags like I was the one who’d made a mess.

My father, Richard, stood behind her with his arms crossed.

My father was a retired Army lieutenant colonel. Twenty-two years in. After he retired, he took a civilian job at Fort Carson doing contract oversight. He still wore his hair high and tight. He still stood like he was waiting for someone to salute him.

“I told you my return date,” I said.

My mother shrugged a little. “Well. Things changed.”

“What things?”

My father stepped closer. “We needed to make some adjustments while you were gone.”

Adjustments.

That’s what they decided to call it.

I looked past them, toward the living room.

The furniture had been moved. My grandfather’s old leather armchair, the one that sat by the window for forty years, was gone. In its place was a big gray sectional couch. There was a huge TV on the wall where my grandfather’s bookcase used to be. And on the walls, there were framed signs in curly letters. BLESSED. GATHER. HOME IS WHERE OUR STORY BEGINS.

None of it was mine.

“Where’s Chloe?” I asked.

My mother smiled. It was her special smile. The one she only ever used for my sister.

“Oh, she’s upstairs resting.”

“Resting.”

“She’s twenty-two weeks,” my mother said, like I should have known. “The doctor wants her off her feet as much as possible.”

I hadn’t known. Nobody had told me.

My sister was pregnant, and nobody had thought to send one email to the other side of the world.

“And Vance?”

“At work. He’ll be home around six.”

Home.

My sister and her husband weren’t visiting.

They lived here.

They’d moved into my house while I was deployed.

“And my room?” I said.

My mother tipped her head slightly, the way she does when she’s about to explain something she thinks is obvious.

“Well, honey. Chloe needed the master suite. It has its own bathroom. When you’re pregnant, you have to use the bathroom constantly. You’ll understand someday.”

I stared at her.

“So where am I sleeping?”

My father answered for her.

“You’ve got options.”

He said it like it was generous.

“The basement’s dry. We put a cot down there. Or you can go back to the barracks on base. You’re an officer. You can get a room at the lodging. It’s not like you’re used to luxury.”

My mother came closer. She put her hand on my arm. Her voice went soft and reasonable.

“Katie. You’re single. You’re gone half the time. You don’t need all this space. Chloe and Vance are starting a family. They need stability. You understand that, don’t you?”

And then came the sentence.

The one I’d heard, in different words, my entire life.

“Be a good sister for once.”

I need to tell you about that sentence.

I was seven the first time I heard it. Chloe was four. She’d broken my science fair volcano, the one I’d been working on for two weeks, because she wanted to see what was inside. I cried. My mother told me to stop making such a fuss. “She’s little. Be a good sister.”

I was twelve when I got the lead in the school play, and Chloe cried because she didn’t get a part, so my parents didn’t come to opening night. They took her out for ice cream instead. “She’s having a hard time. Be a good sister.”

I was eighteen when I got into West Point. My parents were proud. For about a week. Then Chloe, who was fifteen, said I thought I was better than everyone, and my mother asked me to stop talking about it at dinner. “You know how she gets. Be a good sister.”

I was twenty-six when Chloe got married. I was the maid of honor. I paid for the bachelorette weekend. I paid for the photographer when their deposit bounced. Nobody ever paid me back, and when I brought it up once, gently, my mother said, “It’s a gift, Kate. Be a good sister.”

In my family, being a good sister meant one thing.

It meant getting smaller so Chloe could have more room…