Later, one of Caitlyn’s academy friends asked who I was.
Caitlyn smiled once more. “Oh, that’s Erin. She kind of drifts around.”
Near the entrance was a display of family service portraits: my father in command, my mother in uniform, Blake in desert camouflage, Caitlyn in dress whites.
Where my portrait should have been, there was only empty space.
I nearly left that night.
Two days later, Caitlyn texted me: If you’re still here, the doors open at 1300.
At the auditorium, a young ensign checked the attendance manifest twice before allowing me to take a seat in the final row beside the left aisle. My parents sat up
front while I held the wrinkled screenshot of Caitlyn’s message in my lap. The blank ERIN sticker remained tucked inside my purse.
When Caitlyn stepped up to the podium, she looked flawless. Composed. Precise.
She thanked our father for commanding naval ships. She thanked our mother for serving in the Gulf. She thanked Blake, who was getting ready to deploy.
