It made me retreat.
Apologize.
Compromise.
That morning it sounded almost childish.
Dad pointed toward the hallway.
“Enough.”
Everyone stopped.
“This is a family holiday.”
I looked around the kitchen.
A family holiday.
Inside my house.
The house Adrian had purchased eleven years earlier.
The house he had rebuilt with his own hands between deployments.
The house where he had painted the nursery before his final mission.
The house where my family was now ordering his pregnant widow into the garage.
Dad continued.
“Raymond gets the bedroom.”
Then he pointed toward me.
“You can sleep in the garage or find somewhere else.”
My mother looked away.
Victoria smiled faintly.
Raymond kept drinking his coffee.
I could have ended the argument in ten seconds.
I could have told them the truth.
I could have told them I outranked every military officer they had ever met socially.
I could have told them Adrian had not been a government consultant.
I could have told them the bracelet around my wrist wasn’t sentimental jewelry.
It contained an encrypted identification chip.
I could have told them my emergency bereavement leave had expired at midnight.
I could have told them a transport detail was already approaching the neighborhood.
But I didn’t.
Because suddenly I wanted to see how far they would go when they believed I was powerless.
So I smiled.
“Okay.”
Victoria blinked.
“What?”
“I said okay.”
Dad looked relieved.
Mom relaxed.
Raymond nodded approvingly.
“That’s mature.”
I nearly laughed again.
Instead, I walked upstairs.
My bedroom door was open.
Adrian’s dress uniform hung inside the closet.
I had placed it there after the funeral.
For seven months, I had lived between hope and official language.
Missing.
Presumed lost.
Recovery operations ongoing.
Then came confirmation.
Then classification reviews.
Then delays.
Then finally a coffin.
There were details about Adrian’s last mission even I had not been authorized to receive.
That was unusual.
We had served together early in our careers.
