2:14 AM. The house is vibrating with that low-frequency hum of a refrigerator trying too hard. Standing here at the sink, hands pruned and red from the water being too hot, but the heat is the only thing that feels real right now. It’s quiet. So quiet it makes my ears ring, the same way they used to after a range day back at Bragg. Except there’s no brass on the floor here. Just some stray peas and a crumpled napkin. Dinner was—functional. That’s the word. Roast chicken, slightly dry, carrots that the youngest refused to touch. We were sitting there, the four of us, and she didn't even look up from her phone when she said it. Just a casual remark about the mortgage increase and how it’s "a lot of pressure to be the only one actually producing." Producing. Like I’m some defective piece of machinery that stopped generating revenue. She didn't say it with heat. It was just a cold fact, dropped onto the table next to the salt shaker. I just kept chewing. Swallowed. Cleared the plates. Muscle memory is a strange beast. You spend years being told to suppress the "self," to be a cog in a much larger, much more violent machine, and then they drop you back into a kitchen in the suburbs and expect you to have feelings about things. I don't. I just have protocols. Someone says something derogatory? Check for immediate threat. No threat detected. Proceed with secondary objectives. Maintain the AO. The AO being a 2,400 square foot colonial with a leaking faucet and a mortgage I apparently don't help pay for. Scrubbing the grease off the pan now. Circular motions. Firm pressure. It’s funny how the remuneration for my time used to be a steady paycheck and a sense of collective purpose, and now it’s just the absence of clutter. I looked at her while she walked away to the living room and I felt... a complete void. Nothing. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a tally mark in a ledger I stopped keeping years ago. She thinks she’s hurting me, maybe. Or maybe she’s just tired. Doesn't matter. The objective remains. Clean the kitchen. Prep for the next day. THE LIST. 0600: Wake up, PT (if the knees allow), breakfast for the smalls. 0800: School drop-off. 0900-1400: The endless logistical slog of maintaining a household. Groceries. Dry cleaners. Fixing the trim. 1500: The pickup. 1700: Dinner prep. It’s a full operational cycle, day in and day out, but because there’s no direct deposit at the end of the month, it’s "drawing from the pot." Total bullshit, obviously. But I don't say that. I just watch the soap bubbles pop and disappear. I remember a guy in my unit, Miller. He used to talk about his wife back home like she was a saint. Then he got a "Dear John" three months into the tour and he just... stared at the wall for two days. I didn't get it then. I thought, just get back on the line, man. Do the job. Now I’m the one staring at the wall, or the backsplash, or the bottom of a soapy mug. The disconnect is profound. I am a ghost in my own house, performing the role of "Support Staff" while the "Executive" complains about the overhead. I wonder if she knows I haven't really been here for months. Sometimes I wonder if I’m still back there. Maybe this is some weird fever dream or a very long, very boring simulation. The transition to civilian life is supposed to be about finding yourself, but I think I just lost the ability to care about the things people here find important. Money. Status. Who pays for the organic strawberries. It all feels so small. So petty. When she made that comment, I should have stood up. I should have explained the value of what I do. Instead, I just thought about how the lighting in the dining room is inefficient. I'm just watching the clock. The water is getting cold. I should go to bed, but the thought of lying there next to someone who views me as a line item on a budget is exhausting. Not painful. Just... heavy. Like rucking with a pack that’s ten pounds over the limit. You don't cry about it, you just feel it in your lower back. You just keep walking until you reach the extraction point. But there is no extraction point here. Just tomorrow morning. Just more dishes and more lists and more silence. I’ve become very good at the performance. The "how was your day, honey" and the "did the kids get their homework done" bit. It’s all theatre. Underneath the apron, or the dad-jeans, or whatever costume I’m wearing today, I’m still just a guy waiting for the next order. And if the order is to be the "non-contributing" spouse, then fine. I’ll be the best damn non-contributor in the zip code. I’ll make sure the floors shine while I’m being dismissed. I'll be the perfect invisible man. Finished. The sink is clean. Drying my hands on a towel that cost twenty dollars because it matches the curtains. What a joke. I’m going to sit here in the dark for a while and listen to the house settle. It’s the only time I don't have to pretend I’m part of the team. Just a solitary sentry on a post that doesn't exist anymore, guarding a life I’m not sure I even want. FUBAR. Absolute fubar. i'm so tired but i can't sleep. it's just the hum of the fridge. always the hum.