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Authors Note: After causing series damage to my hand with a hot glassware dish and a wet sink, I have decided to add that in the story line as a precautionary tale. Let the glass-baking dish cool on the stove people. Safety first.

10.

Angela.

Two days before Christmas.

"Aunt Angela, I didn't know you had a tattoo. Does Uncle G know you have a tattoo? That's a very odd place to have a tattoo."

I was bent over the sink holding a dishtowel to my hemorrhaging hand. There was blood and glass everywhere. On the floor, the walls, on the glass that was all over the place. Apparently putting a hot glass plate in the sink to cool was not advisable.

I was so writing a nasty letter when my hands stopped bleeding.

"What is that? A turtle?"

Troy didn't notice the glass or blood, or chicken on the floor. He noticed the little sea turtle tattooed on my pelvic bone from the trip to Hawaii last year. I poked at it while I grit my teeth, trying to prevent the spilling of profanities.

"Uh-huh, would you be a dear and get me another dish towel."

Troy looked at the blood soaked one in my hands. Then followed the dripping blood to the floor. "You may need stitches, Auntie."

Yep, that was possible.

I maneuvered my bare feet around the many shards of glass as Trey came running in, box of Band-Aids and gauze with Neosporin in hand.

The dog had vanished at the sound of the glass exploding. It was like a gunshot indoors.

"Watch out for the glass Troy," I told him over my shoulder. He simply hopped on the counter and crawled over into the dining area.

Trey began to open band aides and dump Neosporin on them when someone knocked on the door. I looked to Troy, who nodded and was off. The boys were great.

I then unwrapped my right index finger where there was a massive cut, deep and long across the pad of my finger. Trey made a face and squirted some cream on the gauze, put the medicated gauze on the oozing cut, and then covered it with a band aide.

That one might need stitches. Even I had to admit it. He gave me a look and I said, "Yeah I know, next finger."

We had my pinky and bird finger bandaged when Troy slid into the dining area. Eyes wide as tennis balls.

"There's a general at the door!"

I gave him a look.

A general.

Trey put three medicated band aides on the back of my wrist. Troy added, "A Marine General."

"What does he want," I asked.

Why the hell would a Marine General be at our door? Maybe he was lost. Before I could ask Troy had darted to go ask.

"Is there even a Marine Base around here," Trey asked and I shrugged, then removed the towel from my left hand and sighed in relief. These cuts weren't deep, there were just dozens of them.

Trey continued to expertly bandage up my hand. Once done I told him to keep an eye on my girls, and then I went to go see what was going on at the front door.

We had packing to do.

But the front door was closed.

I peeked into the living room. The general was seated in civilian clothing on my couch. He had a polo shirt with the rank on his sleeves. He wasn't just any general. He was the Commandant of the Marine Corps.

I had the highest-ranking Marine Officer in my shared living room. Yet, I was not surprised.

Gently, I crossed my arms and inquired, "Can I help you sir?"

He looked over at me and stood. He had perfectly trimmed high and tight white hair, green eyes, he had definitely seen better days, but was in perfect shape for a sixty'ish year old man. "Yes ma'am. I am looking for Angela Gordon? Wife of Master Sergeant Gary I. Gordon."

I raised a bandaged hand, "That would be me sir."

The man stood and naturally I wanted to back up, away. Instead I backed into a wall and forced a smile. I was almost normal but not completely.

Troy's hand slid in my back pocket and relief filled me.

Then the commandant rocked my world.

"Angela, I'm your grandfather."