“I give the orders here,” my mom’s colonel boyfriend yelled—until I calmly told him who I really was.

He extended a hand lazily toward me, wrist limp, not bothering to lift his elbow off the armrest. I took his hand. It was clammy. A dead fish handshake. I gave it a firm, short squeeze and let go immediately. Aubrey Miller, I said, my voice calm. Mark Hensley, he replied, pointing a thumb at his chest. Retired Air Force Colonel 06. Did 25 years flown sorties you couldn’t even dream of. He waited for me to be impressed. When I didn’t gasp in awe, he squinted at me.

Your mom said you were in the service. Navy, right? That’s right, I said. He chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. Judging by the get up, I’m guessing you’re enlisted. Petty officer. Maybe a yman handling paperwork. It’s good work for a gal. Keeps you organized. I felt a flash of heat rise up my neck, but my face remained like stone. It was a look I had perfected over 25 years of service.

I thought of the two silver stars currently tucked away in the velvet box inside my bag. Rear Admiral 07. I outranked this man in every possible way. But I remembered the words of Colin Powell, a man I had admired my entire career. Never let your ego get so close to your position that when your position goes, your ego goes with it.

This man, this colonel was all ego. If I corrected him now, it would just be a shouting match. I needed intel. I needed to see how deep this rot went. I work in the industry, I said simply, neither confirming nor denying. Right. Well, good for you, Missy, he said, turning his attention back to the football game. Don’t worry, we’ll make a soldier out of you yet.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open. Aubrey. My mother came rushing out. She looked smaller than I remembered. She was wearing a heavy apron, her gray hair pulled back in a frantic bun. She smelled like frying grease, not apples. She hurried toward me, her arms open. But before she reached me, her eyes darted toward Mark.

She checked his face, gauging his reaction before she dared to hug her own daughter. That hesitation broke my heart more than the stranger in the chair. “Oh, honey, you’re soaking wet,” she whispered, hugging me tight. She felt frail. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mark. This is my Aubrey. We met,” Mark grunted, waving a hand dismissively without looking away from the TV. “She seems quiet.

Not much of a talker, is she?” Mom pulled back, a nervous smile plastered on her face. She’s just tired, Mark. She drove a long way. Well, Mark said, slapping the armrest of the recliner. Don’t just stand there dripping water on the floor. Missy, your mom is putting the finishing touches on my dinner. Be a good girl and take that bag to the kitchen out of the way.

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