“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?”

I looked at all three of them—my mother already scanning the room for witnesses to reassure, my brother suppressing a laugh, my father adjusting his jacket as if I were an inconvenience that would resolve itself if ignored.

In that moment, something inside me finally settled.

“Okay,” I said.

The calm in my voice startled even me.

“I’ll go change.”

Aaron snorted. “Into what? A uniform from the gift shop?”

I didn’t answer.

I walked away.

The doors closed behind me, cutting off the music and the curated warmth, and I stood in the quiet hallway long enough to feel the humiliation finish its work. Then I exhaled slowly, the way I’d been trained to do in moments when emotion threatened judgment.

They didn’t know.

They had never asked.

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