The next morning, I looked at myself in the mirror. The jacket was tighter, but it still held the same weight of purpose. I stood straighter than I had in years.
For a moment, I considered not wearing it. But then I pictured walking in dressed like anyone else — letting them keep telling the story that I’d failed, that I came home broken.
No. Not this time.
I adjusted the collar, ran a hand through my hair, and whispered,
“Let’s finish this quietly.”
Knox barked as I grabbed my keys. The sunrise washed the sky gold, and for the first time in years, I felt ready to face them.
By the time I reached Portsmouth, the late-summer air clung heavy with humidity and salt. The drive from Norfolk took less than an hour, but my stomach churned like I was back on a twelve-hour deployment flight.
I parked early. The engine clicked as it cooled.
Through the windshield, I saw the old diner where Dad took us on Sundays — bacon, black coffee, his voice booming as he bragged about my brother Ryan’s football trophies. He never once mentioned my grades, my Navy scholarship, or the medals I earned later.
The courthouse looked smaller than I remembered — faded brick, the flag at half-staff. A janitor swept the steps as I walked up. He paused, eyes landing on my ribbons.
“Ma’am,” he said softly, unsure whether he should salute.
I gave a small smile. “Morning.”
Inside, the hallway smelled of floor wax and old files. Families whispered on benches. Lawyers shuffled papers. I sat in the back, feeling the eyes — not judging, just curious. A woman in uniform always draws attention in towns like this.
When the clerk called out case 4238B Carter versus Carter, I took a deep breath and stood. My knees still achd when I walked, but the rhythm of my steps was steady. Years of drills never leave you. Seeing my parents again hit harder than I expected. Dad had aged, but not softened. His once black hair was gray, but his glare was the same. He wore his Sunday suit, the one that always looked a size too tight.
