Miles had always been the shining one.
The talented one.
The son who joined the Navy and gave our parents something impressive to mention whenever neighbors asked about their children.
I was the responsible one.
The quiet one.
The one who “did fine.”
And “fine,” I learned very early, was the most efficient way people used to overlook someone without feeling guilty about it.
I stood at the checkpoint watching my family walk toward the hall doors, their conversation already moving on as if I had never been part of the scene.
For a moment I considered calling Miles.
Or texting.
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