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.

That was our house.

Achievement only mattered when it came with applause.

The summer before Caleb left for military academy, Dad hosted a backyard barbecue. The air smelled of lighter fluid, cut grass, and chicken burning at the edges. Relatives held red cups and asked Caleb about obstacle courses, rifle training, and academy life.

I carried paper plates from the kitchen and listened.

Aunt Denise caught my wrist near the potato salad.

“So, Evelyn,” she said, dragging my name out like she had found it in a drawer she rarely opened. “What are you doing these days?”

Before I could answer, Dad laughed from beside the grill.

“Evelyn? She’s doing what Evelyn does. Staying out of the way.”

Everyone laughed. Caleb smirked. That was worse. “I’m working,” I said.

“Where?” Aunt Denise asked. Dad flipped a drumstick. “Probably a library. Somewhere quiet where she can organize pencils.”