I think Jackson noticed because he told them we’d have to leave for the club soon and ushered them out the door.
I felt wrung out when Jackson walked back into the room and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and buried my face in my hands.
“They don’t get it,” I said, eventually raising my face to look at my friend. “It isn’t their fault. I’m glad they don’t get it.”
“Yeah, but they know better,” Jackson replied. He had an edge to his voice that I’d rarely heard from him. “They’ve been around vets for years. Monte and Benny were raised by them.”
“I can’t ask the world to walk around on eggshells because I have a problem.”
Jackson looked ready to argue with me, but looked away. After gathering himself, he said, “You aren’t the only person with PTSD. We’re everywhere. And as adults, th
