At the academy graduation, my father scoffed under his breath, “Useless. She’ll quit like she always does.” I stood perfectly still at attention. Then Drill Sergeant Frey halted the ceremony, turned toward me, and raised his hand in a sharp salute. “Major,” he said, voice carrying across the field. “On extended assignment.” My father’s face drained of color.

“Evie. You look exactly the same.” “Good to see you too.” He laughed. “Still serious.”

Dad drove away as if the airport had personally offended him.

For twenty minutes, they talked around me. Caleb described academy traditions, inspections, and who had “gone soft.” Dad asked questions in a bright, eager tone he had never used with me.

Then he glanced at me in the mirror.

“So, Evelyn. Still doing that contracting thing?” “Yes.”

“Data entry? Logistics?” “Something like that.” Caleb snorted.

Dad said, “Your brother is starting a real career. Structure. Purpose. Hard work. It wouldn’t hurt you to learn from that.”

There it was. Not ten miles from the airport. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

At the hotel, Mom hugged me hard enough to wake an old rib injury. “You’re thin.” “I’m fine.”