Dad was quietly talking with Captain Lewis—Dave—about an upcoming workshop.

“. . . critical to keep the focus on our veterans who have experienced actual trauma,” my father was saying.

“I agree. But we can’t ignore that listening to stories of the same events, horrible stories, day after day, makes caregivers vulnerable to the same symptoms,” the captain said.

My father’s face folded into hard, cool lines like a marble statue in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. “You’re talking about secondary traumatic stress.”

The captain shrugged. “Or compassion fatigue, if you feel that term is less stigmatizing.”

“My feelings are not under discussion,” my father said.

“But that’s the point, isn’t it? Military culture, medical culture, ministers—we’re all trained to tough it out so we can take care of others. We cope by ignoring our own emotions. But eventually, those feelings can’t be ignored. And that creates a problem.”

“It’s not just military culture,” our mother said. “It happens in families, too.”

Meg shot our mother a quick, troubled look from down the table.

But our father ignored the interruption. “It’s not a problem for me. It doesn’t stop me from doing my job.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said. “I just thought you could drop in and give your perspective. Since you’re going anyway.”

Wait. What?

“Going where?” I asked.

“The military caregivers’ conference in D.C. next month,” the captain said.

“Perhaps if you weren’t so busy in the kitchen you would be able to follow the dinner table conversation,” my father said.

I scowled. I could follow the conversation just fine. He was leaving. For D.C.? Five and a half hours away.

“You can’t go,” I said. “Not now.”

All those faces swiveled toward me. Like I’d yelled out shit in church or something. I couldn’t believe I had to explain. I looked at Beth, but she was staring at her plate. If she wouldn’t say anything . . . And Mom wouldn’t say anything . . .

“Mom needs you here,” I said. “She’s sick.”

My father looked more like a saint than ever. A martyred missionary, maybe, forced to reason with rebellious natives. “It would be unthinkable for me to withdraw. I am one of the organizers.”

Right. Mission first.

My chest burned. “But—”

“Don’t fuss, Jo,” Mom said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine by then. The conference is weeks and weeks away.”

An awkward silence fell.

I wanted desperately to believe her. But before we even served dessert, she needed to go upstairs. She shuffled toward the stairs, leaning heavily on Beth.

“Let me help you, ma’am.”

A rough, bearded soldier came forward to take her arm. Beth flushed and moved away.

“Thank you,” my mother said.

I glanced at our father—was he really okay letting some strange man walk Mom to their bedroom?—but he was still deep in conversation with the captain.

“Well, at least we have enough dessert,” I said glumly to Meg as we cut and plated pie. “These look great, by the way.”

“Thanks. Dinner was delicious,” she added kindly.