At first, I thought it was a mistake. Then I saw the names.

Plaintiffs: Robert and Margaret Carter.
Defendant: Evelyn Carter.

My parents were suing me.

The words blurred for a second before I laughed out loud—the kind of dry, tired laugh that comes from someone who’s seen too many absurd things to cry about one more. I carried the letter inside, set it on the kitchen table, and stared at it while my dog, a big old shepherd named Knox, limped over and rested his head on my knee.

“Guess they finally found another way to talk to me,” I murmured.

It had been twelve years since I left home. The last time I saw my parents, I was wearing fatigues, not dress blues. I’d just finished BUD/S, the toughest training in the Navy SEAL pipeline. Dad hadn’t even come to the graduation. Mom sent a text that said,

“We raised a daughter, not a soldier.”

So I stopped expecting them to understand.