My promotion to lieutenant commander should have been a celebration. Instead, when my parents attended their monthly church potluck, I overheard my mother telling Mrs. Garrett about Marcus’s latest sales figures and Diane’s wedding planning. But when Mrs. Garrett specifically asked about me, my mother’s response was vague. “Oh, she’s still doing her Navy thing. We’re hoping she’ll settle down soon.” As if my military service was a rebellious phase rather than a seven‑year commitment to national defense.

The “uniform obsession” comments started around this time. My father would make jokes about my “costume” when I wore dress blues to formal family events, implying that I was playing dress‑up rather than representing years of earned rank and responsibility. “Must be nice to have someone else pick out your clothes every day,” he’d say, chuckling at his own wit. The jokes weren’t malicious in tone, but they consistently diminished something I took pride in.

What hurt more was their selective memory about financial contributions. When I’d sent money during their difficult period, they’d accepted it without question. But now, when relatives praised them for raising successful children, my contributions seemed to vanish from their recollection. Marcus got credit for his independence and strong work ethic, while my financial support became invisible, as if their recovery had been entirely self‑generated.

The entitlement began manifesting in phone calls that felt more like billing statements. “The roof needs repairs,” my mother would say—not asking for help, but implying obligation. “Your father’s truck is making that noise again.” These weren’t requests. They were reminders of what they considered my ongoing debt for their parental investment. When I suggested they apply for a home improvement loan or consider a payment plan for repairs, my mother’s voice would turn cold. “After eighteen years of raising you, this is how you show gratitude.”