“My Sister Delivers Amazon Packages.” His Ceo Patted My Shoulder And Said, “Honest Work,” Then Turned Away. A Few Minutes Later, The Ballroom Doors Swung Open. An Officer Stepped Inside, Stopped, And Saluted.
“General Jablonski, Your Vehicle Is Ready, Ma’am.” The Room Went Completely Silent As Everyone Realized He Was Talking To Me. My Name Tag Said It All: U.S. Army.
I Just Smiled. “Well, My ‘Amazon’ Is Here.”
‘She delivers Amazon packages,’ my brother laughed at his gala. Then my ‘Amazon’ arrived.
My name is Lisha Jablonsky, and my brother once told his country club friends that I drove around all day while he actually contributed to society. This was three hours after I’d authorized a counterterrorism operation in Yemen that saved 200 lives. The thing about being a twostar general in Joint Special Operations Command is that nobody knows what JSOC actually does, and I prefer it that way.
When civilians hear “military,” they picture parades and salutes. They don’t picture encrypted satones at 3:00 a.m. or authorization codes that can redirect entire carrier strike groups.
My family certainly didn’t. My brother Trevor worked in pharmaceutical sales. He made good money, the kind that bought a McMansion in the suburbs and a BMW with heated seats.
To my parents, this was success incarnate, something visible, something they could brag about at their bridge club. I’d been in the army for 22 years. “Lisha does something with the government,” my mother would say vaguely at family gatherings, her tone suggesting I processed paperwork at the DMV.
“Very stable. Good benefits.”
The benefits were excellent. The presidential helicopter was particularly nice.
It started when I was 30, fresh off my promotion to major. I’d come home for Thanksgiving, still jet-lagged from Kosovo, and found myself seated next to Trevor’s new girlfriend, Stephanie, who worked in marketing. “So, what do you do?” Stephanie asked brightly, reaching for the cranberry sauce.
“I’m in the army.”
“Oh, like recruiting? My cousin thought about joining once.”
“Something like that,” I said. Trevor leaned over.
“She’s basically middle management staff, government work. Can’t really get fired. You know how it is.”
I’d spent that morning in a secure video conference with the Secretary of Defense discussing the insertion timeline for a hostage rescue in the caucuses.
I’d had three cups of coffee and authorized the deployment of $60 million in assets. “Sure,” I said. “Can’t get fired.”
The pattern solidified over years.
Every promotion took me deeper into the classified world, further from any conversation I could actually have with my family. When I made lieutenant colonel, my father asked if that meant I’d get one of those little offices with a window. When I pinned on my first star at 38, becoming one of the youngest brigadier generals in JSOC, my mother’s main concern was whether the ceremony would conflict with Trevor’s engagement party.
It didn’t. I flew in from Qatar, attended both, and flew back out. Nobody asked where I’d been.
“Government travel,” I’d said. “Training thing.”
My mother had patted my hand sympathetically. “Well, at least you get to see different places, dear.
Even if it’s just military bases or whatever.”
I’d been in the royal palace in Riyad the day before, briefing the Saudi defense minister on a joint operation. But sure, military bases or whatever. The mockery was never cruel, exactly.
That was the insidious part. It was condescending in the way that only family can manage, a kind of pitying dismissal racked in concern. They weren’t trying to hurt me.
They genuinely believed I’d settled for less. At Trevor’s wedding, his best man made a toast about everyone finding their path, glancing meaningfully at me. “Some people climb mountains, some people guard them, right?”
Everyone chuckled.
I smiled into my champagne. I’d literally climbed K2 during winter warfare training, but who was counting? When I made major general at 41, the second star, the one that came with joint special operations command in my official title, I simply didn’t tell them.
What would I say? I couldn’t explain what JSOC did. I couldn’t mention the operations, the task forces, the direct action missions coordinated across 17 countries.
I couldn’t tell them about the situation room or the secure facility at Fort Bragg or the fact that I reported directly to a fourstar who reported directly to the president. So I didn’t. “Still doing the army thing?” my father asked at Christmas.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
