David leaned back, crossing his arms. “Fair enough. But there’s another kind of interview waiting for you, and I think you know it.”
I met his gaze. He didn’t have to say the words. My family was circling, their messages growing more desperate with each passing day. The silence I’d once craved from them was now a cacophony of pleas and half-formed apologies. And I wasn’t sure which was worse: being ignored, or being noticed for all the wrong reasons.
“They want to meet,” I said flatly. “Harper’s been texting. Richard called fifteen times. Even Eleanor left a voicemail.”
David raised an eyebrow. “What did it say?”
I pulled out my phone and played the message. Eleanor’s voice filled the space between us, trembling and unfamiliar.
“Chloe, we were wrong. I was wrong. I don’t even know where to start. But if you ever decide to call, please just know your mother is proud of you.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and insufficient. David whistled softly. “That’s… something.”
“It’s too little, too late.” I shoved my tray aside. “They had twenty years, David. Twenty years of birthdays, holidays, deployments. They never once asked where I was or if I was okay. They sold my car, for God’s sake. They put my picture behind a door. And now, because my name is on the news, suddenly they’re proud?”
My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated it. I hated the rawness in my throat, the sting behind my eyes. I had survived so much. I had built a career from nothing, forged a reputation in fire and sand. And yet here I was, undone by the sound of my mother’s voice saying the words I’d ached to hear for a lifetime.
David reached across the table and rested his hand on my arm. “You don’t owe them anything, Chloe. But maybe—just maybe—you owe it to yourself to hear them out. Not for their sake. For yours.”
I pulled away, standing abruptly. “I need some air.”
Outside, the autumn wind had picked up, sending leaves skittering across the pavement. I walked along the edge of the training yard, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. A group of cadets was running drills, their voices sharp and synchronized. I watched them for a long time, remembering the girl I used to be—young, determined, desperate to prove herself. She had dreamed of coming home to open arms. She had never imagined this.
When I returned to my room, another email was waiting. This one was from Richard.
