Part One – The Funeral in Ohio
My name is Captain Demi James, United States Army, thirty‑eight years old, and today I am standing completely alone at my father’s funeral in Ohio.
The drizzle has been falling all morning, a thin, cold curtain over the military cemetery. My dress blues are perfectly pressed, my back ramrod straight, my shoes polished so hard that even the cemetery mud can’t quite dull their shine. On my chest, rows of metal ribbons catch what little light filters through the clouds.
Inside my chest, my heart feels like it’s splintering.
The bugle begins to play taps, that slow, aching melody that every American military family recognizes as sacred. Heads bow. Hands move to hearts. This should be the purest moment of respect for my father, a veteran who gave his life in service to this country.
Instead, I hear the sharp, self‑important click of stilettos on stone.
Vanessa.
My older sister sweeps toward me like she’s walking a red carpet instead of approaching a grave. Her black designer dress plunges far deeper than is appropriate for a funeral, a cloud of expensive perfume spilling around her and swallowing the gentle scent of the white lilies set beside my father’s casket.
She doesn’t spare the framed photo of Dad a single glance. Her gaze slides over the crowd, checking who’s watching her, who’s admiring the way the dress hugs her curves.
Then she steps in close, angling her body so anyone watching will think she’s comforting me.
“Poor Demi,” she murmurs, lips curving in a sympathetic smile that never reaches her eyes. “You look so stiff in that uniform. No wonder Darren said being with you felt like hugging a board.”
Her hand smooths an imaginary wrinkle from my lapel.
“Men want softness,” she adds, her voice dipped in sugar. “Not a commander in boots.”
Each word hits like a jab to the ribs.
I keep my eyes on the horizon. A soldier does not break in front of the enemy. Not on a battlefield, and not at her father’s grave.
Vanessa keeps going.
“Thirty‑eight,” she sighs. “No husband. No kids. Just these cold little medals on your chest. Dad must have been so sad to see you end up like this.”
I feel my hand tighten inside my white glove, nails digging into my palm until it stings. I want to shout that my life is more than my marital status, that my father was proud of me—but my throat is locked.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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