I never told my sister-in-law that I was a Colonel in Army Intelligence!

The autumn wind swept through the oaks surrounding the Blackwood estate, scattering leaves across five manicured acres like coins carelessly tossed. The house, with its colonial columns, wide windows, and a three-car garage, seemed like the perfect picture of suburban life—well-ordered and controlled. From the outside, it looked like everything was in place.

Inside the garage, under the hood of a worn 2004 Ford F-150, I appeared to be the opposite.

My hands were stained with grease. A faded gray hoodie hung loosely on my frame, one elbow torn. The truck, a rusty workhorse most would have abandoned long ago, was something I knew inside and out. I tightened a belt, moving slowly, careful of my leg where a shard of metal had once left its mark.

To my sister-in-law, Sarah, I was John Blackwood: unemployed, aimless, and a drain on my wife, Emily, who carried all the weight.

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