I CAME HOME FROM SAUDI ARABIA WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE AFTER 5 YEARS OF BACKBREAKING WORK—AND FOUND MY WIFE ..

I stepped closer to the dirty kitchen doorway and looked inside.

Sarah.

My wife.

My Sarah.

She sat on a plastic stool beneath weak yellow light, wearing a dress torn at the shoulder. Her wrists looked thinner. Her hair was tied back with a stretched-out elastic band. In her hands was a chipped plate filled with pale leftovers, food I wouldn’t have fed to a stray dog, and she was offering it to my son.

My son.

Jamie ate slowly and carefully, with the quiet obedience children only learn after life teaches them not to ask for too much.

Against the wall behind them sat everything they owned.

A thin pillow.

A plastic bucket.