I never told my son-in-law that I was the most feared Drill Sergeant in Marine history. He forced my pregnant daughter to scrub the floors while he played video games. “Miss a spot and you don’t eat,” he sneered. I couldn’t take it anymore. I kicked the power cord, shutting off his game. He jumped up, furious. “You crazy old fool!” Before he could blink, I had him pinned against the wall by his throat, feet dangling off the floor. “Listen closely, maggot,” I growled. “Boot camp starts now.”

From the couch, a voice boomed—loud, nasal, and dripping with entitlement.

“Yo, Pops! Keep the chatter down, will ya? I’m clutching a 1v4 here. I need focus!”

Derek.

He was sprawled across the sectional like a conqueror, surrounded by a fortress of empty Monster Energy cans and crumpled Doritos bags. He was thirty, but he lived like a teenager with a credit card. He wore a headset over one ear, his eyes glued to the screen, his thumbs dancing on the controller with a dexterity he never applied to anything else.

“And Sarah!” Derek shouted without turning around. “Get me a Mountain Dew. The red one. Now!”

I watched my daughter. She was eight months pregnant, her belly a heavy, beautiful burden. Her ankles were swollen over the tops of her slippers. Yet, she didn’t argue. She waddled toward the kitchen, flinching as Derek cursed at the screen.

My hand tightened around the handle of the gift bag. The thick paper tore with a sharp rip.

I took a breath. Stand down, Marine, I told myself. You’re a guest. Keep the peace.

I followed Sarah into the kitchen. She was struggling to reach the high cabinet where the glasses were kept. Her shirt rode up slightly as she stretched.

“Here, let me,” I said, stepping forward.

“I got it, Dad, really,” she stammered, trying to pull her sleeve down quickly.

But she wasn’t fast enough.