They laughed openly and mocked my role in the military, treating my service as something trivial and unimportant…

I didn’t tell my family.

Why would I?

To them, service meant mud on boots and rifles in hand. If you weren’t shouting orders or flying jets, you weren’t really in the fight.

I stood by the drinks table, smiling politely while my aunt talked about Florida real estate. My eyes drifted back to my father—laughing louder with every beer, basking in admiration.

I used to crave that look from him.