After it ended, a few stayed behind, casting new looks—ones filled with understanding. My rank was no longer an abstract title. It was real.

My father lingered near the hallway. “Cassandra,” he said softly when we were alone, “we need to talk.”

I nodded. “Your office?”

My mother was already seated when we walked in, looking nervous. Ethan stood by the window, arms crossed. All three of them—my lifelong jury—now facing something they couldn’t rationalize away.

“You’ve been a Colonel for how long?” my father finally asked.

“Six months.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I did,” I said. “I sent invitations. I emailed. I left messages. I even sent press clippings. No one ever replied.”’