My name is Rachel Roach. I am 42 years old, and for the last 19 years, my family has believed that I’m nothing more than a useless paper pusher. But I never imagined I would be publicly humiliated like this, right in the middle of Los Angeles International Airport.
My brother Garrett stood there in his polished Armani suit, waving an economy-class ticket in front of my face as if he were tossing a coin to a beggar.
He laughed loud enough for the entire line to hear.
“Here you go, Ra. Middle seat right near the lavatory. You’re used to suffering, right?
First class isn’t for people living paycheck to paycheck.”
My mother turned her face away, embarrassed for me. But what none of them knew was that inside the pocket of my cheap Walmart jacket was a code red military ID—and a C-37B military jet waiting on the tarmac. Engines running, just for me.
They think I am the black sheep of the family. They have no idea that a storm is about to make landfall the moment the gate guard sees my badge.
Let me know where you are watching from in the comments. And remember to hit subscribe if you have ever been looked down upon by your own blood because you chose a different path.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires of my rusted Ford F-150 as I pulled into the driveway.
It was Thanksgiving Thursday, and I had just come off a 24-hour shift at the Pentagon, monitoring a developing situation in the South China Sea, running on nothing but stale coffee and adrenaline. My eyes burned and every muscle in my body screamed for sleep. But I was here.
I showed up. I always showed up.
And of course, there was no room for me.
My brother Garrett’s brand new pearl white Tesla Model X was parked diagonally across the driveway, taking up enough space for two cars. It sat there like a spaceship that had landed in the middle of a suburb in Virginia, gleaming offensively under the autumn sun.
I sighed, shifting my truck into reverse and parking halfway onto the damp grass of the front lawn.
Before I could even cut the engine, the front door swung open. Garrett stepped out holding a glass of pinot noir. He wasn’t wearing an apron.
He was wearing a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my truck’s transmission. He didn’t bother to come down the porch steps.
“Jesus, Ra! Do you have to park that heap on the lawn?
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it continues on the next page.
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