For years, I served quietly — logistics, emergency extractions. Not the kind of hero they make stories about, but the one keeping ships running and people alive. I carried that pride privately.
Then an IED near Al-Huda tore through our convoy. I came home with a rebuilt knee, a limp, and a pension that made civilian life possible but painfully slow. I bought a small house near Norfolk, fixed it up alone, and tried not to think about parents who never once called.
That night, after reading the summons again, I made coffee and opened my old Navy chest. It still smelled faintly of sea salt and gun oil. My uniform lay inside like something sacred — dark wool, polished buttons, silver insignia. Beside it sat the folded flag they gave me after my best friend, Chief Petty Officer Lewis, didn’t make it home.
I hadn’t worn the uniform since his funeral. Maybe that’s why my hands shook when I lifted it. Knox watched as I held the jacket up to the lamp.
“Guess they’ll finally see who I became,” I whispered.
The next morning, I called the courthouse.
“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk confirmed.
“Your parents are asking the court to transfer the family property to them on grounds of abandonment.”
I almost laughed. Abandonment?
I was deployed overseas.
“You’ll need to appear in person if you want to contest it.”
I thanked her and hung up.
