Not even “proud of you.”
Just her name at the bottom.
She hated my uniform, though she was too polished to say it directly.
At Christmas, when neighbors asked where I was stationed, she smiled thinly and said, “Clara works for the government.”
As if I stamped forms in a basement.
As if I had not spent years walking steel passageways, coordinating fuel transfers, tracking inventories, and making sure ships had what they needed before they sailed into the Pacific.
One December, I came home early from leave and found my promotion photo turned facedown behind a porcelain vase.
Serena’s magazine profile sat centered on the mantel.
My uniformed photograph was hidden like a stain.
I held the frame while snow melted off my boots. The woman in the picture looked younger than I remembered feeling. Shoulders square. Eyes clear. Proud.
Then I put it back exactly where I found it.
