My family left no chair for me at my brother’s welcome-home dinner. Dad raised his glass and said, “Some people are born to command.” He never looked at me. To them, I was the daughter who quit military academy and disappeared. So I stayed quiet. Until the next morning, a drill sergeant saw me on my brother’s training base, snapped into a salute, and said one word that made his rifle hit the dirt: “General.”

My father’s voice rose. “Westbridge Academy was supposed to straighten Mara out,” he said. “Full scholarship. Top scores. Then she quit. Vanished. No explanation.”

My mother sighed. “She was always sensitive.” Sensitive.

That was what they called a girl who stopped sleeping. A girl who learned that footsteps in a hallway could mean danger. A girl who left because staying would have destroyed her.

I set the coffee pot down.

“Did you ever wonder why I left?” I asked quietly.

The room froze.

Dad’s jaw tightened. “We know why.”

“No,” I said. “You know what you decided.”

Mom whispered, “Mara, not tonight.”

Of course.

Not on Noah’s night. Not in the story where he was the success and I was the warning.

I picked up my duffel.

Mom frowned. “You’re leaving?”

“I was never seated.”