My family skipped my wedding—then demanded $8,400

He wasn’t wrong. The next few weeks seemed strangely lighter. I threw myself into work—training, planning my 5:00 a.m. morning physical training. A new group of recruits arrived in my unit, and their wide eyes reminded me of my younger self. Eager, naive—thinking medals would fix what my family had broken.

One afternoon I was discussing logistics when Chief Ramos, my deputy, stopped me in the hallway.

“Ma’am,” he said carefully. “I saw your dad last week.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“He was in town. He said he wanted to find out what base you were at. He asked about old Navy contacts.”

“How do you know that?”

Ramos hesitated. “He came to the cafe by the docks. He asked about you. He said it was a family matter.”

I took a deep breath. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

He quickly shook his head. “Of course not, ma’am.”

“Fine.” I left before I could ask questions. My father had crossed a line—not with the police, not with the money, but with control. The same line he used when I was sixteen and told me to cancel prom because my grades had dropped by one point. The same line of control that made him hold onto my acceptance letter to Annapolis for three weeks before finally handing it to me with the words, “You’ll regret it.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the refrigerator light and listening to the rain pattering against the window. David entered quietly, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re thinking about him again.”

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