That would have been easier.
It also would have allowed my parents to continue treating my service as an embarrassing detour rather than the life I had built.
I straightened the collar.
“Let’s finish this quietly,” I told Knox.
Portsmouth greeted me with heavy air and a washed-out morning sky.
On the drive, I passed the diner where my family used to eat when I was a child.
I remembered Ryan’s trophies lined across the living-room wall when we were children.
There had never been anything displayed for me.
Not a certificate.
Not a photograph.
Not even the graduation notice I had mailed home.
At the courthouse entrance, a janitor noticed my ribbons and stopped pushing his cart.
“Ma’am,” he said.
I gave him a small nod.
In the hallway, conversations softened as I passed.
Families sat on hard benches holding folders, coffee cups, and the strained expressions of people waiting for strangers to decide something personal.
