Tyler enlisted in the Marines when he turned eighteen. It was a good decision for him. He needed structure, direction, something to channel all that restless energy. When he came home after boot camp, he was different—straighter posture, sharper tone. He wore his uniform to family gatherings even when it wasn’t required. He referred to himself as infantry, even though he was still a private first class, an E-2 working his way toward E-3.

He had earned the title of Marine, and I respected that. But there was a new edge to him, something I hadn’t seen before. He talked about boot camp like it was the hardest thing anyone had ever done. He made jokes about other branches, especially the Air Force. “Chair Force,” he’d call it, laughing. “Flyboys are soft.”

I let it slide. Rivalry between branches was normal. It didn’t bother me. But over time, I started noticing a pattern.

I had helped Tyler a lot over the years. When he was preparing to enlist, I proofread his paperwork. I coached him through PT when he was struggling to meet the minimums. I drove him to appointments when his car broke down. I paid for gear he forgot to bring to training. He relied on me, and I didn’t mind. That’s what family does.