“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?”

The parking garage was dim and cold, the concrete damp from earlier rain. I reached my vehicle and opened the trunk, pushing aside a garment bag I’d told myself I wouldn’t need tonight.

I had wanted—foolishly—to attend as a daughter.

But they had made it clear.

They wanted a prop.

The uniform was heavy in my hands, familiar in a way no dress had ever been. I changed quickly, methodically, muscle memory taking over where emotion had failed me. I pinned each ribbon with care, fastened each button, and finally slid the boards onto my shoulders.

Two silver stars caught the fluorescent light.

I didn’t rush.

I didn’t hesitate.

I walked back inside through the main entrance.

The change in the room wasn’t immediate—it spread.

Conversations slowed. Heads turned. A few officers straightened instinctively before they understood why.

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