“Go change, you look cheap!” my dad laughed after Mom ruined my dress. I returned wearing a general’s uniform. The room went silent. He stuttered, “Wait… are those two stars?”

“You did that on purpose,” I said under my breath.

“Don’t exaggerate,” my younger brother Aaron muttered, glancing at the damage with a smirk. “Honestly, it looked boring before.”

I turned toward my father, Colonel Raymond Hale, a man who had built his identity brick by brick from discipline and reputation, a man who spoke endlessly about honor while practicing very little of it at home.

He didn’t ask if I was okay.

He sighed.

“For the love of God,” he said sharply, “now you look cheap. This is a formal military benefit, not a neighborhood cookout. Go change.”

“I don’t have anything else,” I replied.

“Then go sit in the car,” he snapped. “You’re embarrassing us.”

The word landed harder than the wine.

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