“My what,”
he whispered.
I took a slow breath.
“Tell them to stand down until further notice.”
The pilot nodded crisply.
“Yes, ma’am.”
When he disappeared back into the cockpit, Richard sat there stiffly, hands trembling slightly. I could tell he was trying to figure out whether to be angry, scared, or impressed. Mostly he just looked confused.
“What are you?”
he finally demanded.
For a moment, I didn’t respond. Not because I wanted to be mysterious, but because I needed to choose my words carefully. The truth was complicated, classified, buried beneath years of service that didn’t fit neatly into stories people told at dinner parties.
“I’m the woman your son loves,”
I said gently.
“And I’m someone who served when service was needed.”
“That’s not good enough,”
he snapped.
“You had fighter jets deployed because you stepped onto my plane. That’s not normal. That’s not civilian.”
“No,”
I said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
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