I didn’t tell my family.
Why would I?
To them, service meant mud on boots and rifles in hand. If you weren’t shouting orders or flying jets, you weren’t really in the fight.
I stood by the drinks table, smiling politely while my aunt talked about Florida real estate. My eyes drifted back to my father—laughing louder with every beer, basking in admiration.
I used to crave that look from him.
Now, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be seen at all.
A Joke at My Expense
Eventually, my father clinked his glass. The yard quieted instantly. He had that effect.
He toasted my mother, told a few well-worn stories from his career, each one earning approving murmurs. Then, inevitably, his gaze found me.
“And this,” he said, pointing casually, “is my daughter Emily. She lives in DC, works with computers. Files. Spreadsheets. Something like that.”
