They didn’t know how many funerals I’d attended.
How many letters I’d written.
How many names I remembered.
They didn’t know that the woman standing barefoot on her front lawn had once spent years making decisions under pressure while other people waited for her answer.
And I preferred it that way.
My rank wasn’t a weapon.
My past wasn’t something I used to frighten people.
It was simply part of me.
A part I’d buried beneath grocery lists, school schedules, coffee mugs, oil changes, and fifteen-year-old arguments about homework.
That life was over.
At least, I’d hoped it was.
Logan walked closer.
“You know what your problem is?”
I didn’t answer.
“You think you’re better than everybody.”
“No.”
“You’ve been acting like you’re above me since I moved in.”
“I barely know you.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
“You think you’re better because you’re older.”
