“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 moved through the crowd with measured steps, my gaze fixed ahead, until I stopped directly in front of my family.

My mother opened her mouth first. “I told you to stay—”

She stopped.

Her eyes traveled upward.

Her hand froze mid-gesture.

My father turned, irritation already forming on his face. “What are you doing now?” he laughed reflexively. “Is this some kind of—”

He saw the stars.

The color drained from his face so quickly it was almost alarming.

“That’s… that’s not funny,” he stammered. “Where did you get that uniform?”

“It’s not a costume,” a voice said calmly.

A tall man stepped forward from the crowd—General Marshall Vaughn, a name my father had spoken with reverence for years. He snapped to attention and saluted me crisply.

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