When the clerk called Case 4238B, I stood.
My knee ached with the first step.
It ached with the second.
Every step remained steady.
Seeing my parents hurt more than I expected.
Dad’s hair had thinned, but the hard set of his mouth had not changed.
Mom wore pearls and sat with her hands folded over a structured handbag.
Neither rose.
Neither smiled.
They looked at the uniform as if it were proof of bad manners.
I had not brought a lawyer.
The facts were simple enough to carry myself.
Judge Simmons entered and took his seat.
When he looked up and recognized me, the entire room shifted.
“Commander Carter,” he said after a moment, “would you like to make a statement?”
My father blinked.
“Commander?” he repeated.
The word landed between us like an object dropped on a quiet floor.
I moved to the table and placed the tax receipts beside the summons.
