I am Shiloh Kenny, 32 years old, the woman my entire family has called a useless filing clerk for the last 10 years. Nobody thought a family barbecue in the Virginia suburbs would end with the sound of snapping bone. When Kyle, my hero cousin, who just graduated boot camp, lunged at me with a manic smile, he thought he would crush me into the grass like a ragd doll.
He didn’t know that my reflexes weren’t forged at summer camp, but in the kill houses of the Middle East. In the moment he touched me, the air thick with the smell of stale beer suddenly turned to the metallic scent of blood. 6 seconds.
That was all the time I needed to turn the family’s pride into an unconscious heap at my feet and expose my mother’s hypocrisy. Two hours before the ambulance sirens cut through the humid Virginia air, I was sitting in my sedan at the end of my mother’s driveway. The deep grally voice of a former Navy Seal host on my podcast was discussing the discipline of silence, the tactical advantage of being underestimated.
It was the only world that made sense to me. I looked at the house, a two-story colonial with a perfectly manicured lawn that screamed middleclass American dream. The driveway was already packed with Ford F-150s and oversized SUVs, their bumpers plastered with patriotic stickers that most of the drivers didn’t truly understand.
I reached for the volume knob and killed the engine. Silence filled the car. I took a breath, holding it for a four count, then releasing it.
This was the ritual. I had to take off the operator, the tier 1 specialist who analyzed threat vectors and breach points, and put on the costume of Shiloh, the mousy single 30some administrative assistant who supposedly filed paperwork for a logistics company in DC. It was the heaviest armor I ever had to wear.
I stepped out of the car, adjusting my glasses. They were non-prescription, just another prop to soften my face, to make me look harmless. The air smelled of charcoal, lighter fluid, and roasting broughtwursts.
But underneath that, I could smell the tension. Walking into the backyard was like walking onto a stage where everyone knew their lines except me. The noise was overwhelming.
Country music was blaring from the patio speakers, competing with the rockous laughter of men holding cans of Bud Light. And in the center of it all, standing by the grill like he had just conquered a nation, was Kyle. He was 22 with a high and tight haircut so fresh his scalp looked raw.
He was wearing a tight Marine Corps t-shirt that clung to his chest, making sure everyone saw the muscles he’d built over the last 3 months. He was holding a beer in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, gesturing wildly as he recounted his time at Paris Island. “I’m telling you, Aunt Linda,” Kyle shouted, his voice cracking slightly.
“The drill instructors tried to break me. They really tried. But you just got to have that mental toughness, you know?
It’s a mindset. Civilians just don’t get it. My aunt Linda and Aunt Sarah were gazing at him with eyes full of adoration, nodding as if he were explaining quantum physics.
“Oh, he’s so brave,” Aunt Linda couped, touching his arm. “Our little warrior.” I stood by the sliding glass door, invisible. “A warrior?
He had barely finished basic training. He hadn’t seen sand. hadn’t heard a shot fired in anger.
Hadn’t felt the concussive force of an IED rattling his teeth. He was a boot, a rookie with an ego bigger than his rucks sack. But here in this backyard, he was Captain America.
I felt a sudden thirst, a dry scratch in my throat, and slipped into the kitchen to find a drink. The house was cooler, but the air felt heavier, suffocating with the memories of my childhood. I walked to the counter where the drinks were set up.
I reached for a glass of white wine, just wanting something to dull the sharp edges of the afternoon. Put it down. The voice came from behind me, sharp as a whip.
I didn’t flinch. I never flinched anymore, but I froze. I turned to see my mother, Janet.
She was wiping her hands on a floral dish towel, her eyes scanning me from head to toe with that familiar look of disappointment. She stepped forward and physically snatched the glass from my hand. The wine sloshed over the rim, staining her fingers, but she didn’t care.
“Don’t drink that,” she hissed, her voice low so the guests outside wouldn’t hear. “A woman drinking alone in the kitchen looks cheap, Shiloh. It looks desperate.” “I’m 32, Mom,” I said, my voice quiet, practiced.
“I just wanted a glass of wine. ” “You want attention?” she corrected, placing the glass out of my reach. She nodded toward the window where Kyle was now laughing, throwing his head back.
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