After nine long months overseas, I finally came home — back to my wife, Ruby, and our beautiful newborn daughter, Jenna. Everything seemed perfect. Too perfect. The house smelled like baby powder and coffee, the nursery walls were painted soft yellow, and our loyal German Shepherd, Max, followed me everywhere, tail wagging like he couldn’t believe I was real. But soon, I’d realize that behind all this warmth was a secret — one that would tear my world apart. The first night home, I couldn’t take my eyes off Jenna.

I still remember the smell of sunscreen and salt on our skin the day we drove back from the beach — the boys were laughing in the car, sand still in their hair — and then I saw it. A tall, ugly wall of wood had appeared between our windows and the wide sky. My throat tightened. That fence sat one foot from our windows, right on our land. My boys’ favorite view of the trees was gone. My name is Catherine. I’m 40. For the last year I’ve been

“The Mailman, the Bugatti, and My Little Boy’s Kind Heart” That Tuesday afternoon was the kind of hot that makes the air shimmer. The kind that makes you question if walking outside is even worth it. I was sitting on the porch, sipping my sweet tea, watching my five-year-old, Eli, draw dinosaurs with chalk all over the driveway. His cheeks were pink, his curls stuck to his forehead, and his little tongue poked out while he concentrated. Then Eli stopped drawing and frowned.“Mom,” he asked, “why’s that man walking funny?”