I was the middle child, sandwiched between my older brother, Marcus, who played football badly but loudly, and my younger sister, Diane, who sang in the church choir with a voice that made people close their eyes and smile. I didn’t have Marcus’s confidence or Diane’s obvious talent. What I had was reliability. While Marcus forgot to pick up groceries and Diane practiced scales in her room, I was the one who remembered to pay the electric bill, who tutored the younger cousins during family gatherings, who stayed late after school events to help clean up.

My parents took this for granted. When relatives asked about their children, Marcus got credit for his leadership potential and Diane for her artistic soul. I got a polite nod and a comment about being dependable. At seventeen, dependable felt like a consolation prize.

The decision to join the Navy came during my senior year, sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, looking at college brochures I couldn’t afford. Mrs. Patterson had mentioned military service almost as an afterthought, but something about the structure and purpose appealed to me. When I told my parents at dinner, my mother set down her fork and stared at me like I’d announced plans to join the circus. “It’s just a phase,” she told Mrs. Henderson from next door the following week. “She’ll get it out of her system and find something more suitable.” My father was more direct. “Women don’t belong on ships,” he said, not looking up from his newspaper. “You’ll be back home in six months.”