I reached the top stair.
Margaret looked up first.
For twelve years, that woman had always found something wrong with what I wore.
That morning, she couldn’t say a word.
Ethan turned, champagne glass frozen halfway to his mouth.
“Claire?”
I descended slowly.
His eyes moved from my ribbons to my insignia.
“What rank are you?”
Before I answered, an older guest whispered, “Oh my God.”
Then a uniformed officer entered through the open front door, saw me, snapped to attention, and raised a precise salute.
“Ma’am.”
The entire room went silent.
And just as Ethan’s face drained of color, another car pulled into the driveway.
Howard stepped out carrying the blue folder containing the documents to our house.
Ethan recognized it immediately.
