But I was not the same person who had left. I was Evelyn Carter, a decorated veteran, a woman who had coordinated logistics in combat zones. And yet, standing on this porch, I felt like the eighteen-year-old girl who ran away to find herself.

I had just buried my grandfather, the only man in this family who ever looked at me and saw more than a problem to manage. The funeral had been quiet—too quiet. A small chapel, a handful of people, no dramatic speeches. Just the steady smell of old wood, lilies, and dust. I’d stood there in my black uniform jacket, hands clasped tight to keep them from shaking. Not because I was weak, but because grief has a way of slipping past even the strongest armor.

Afterward, his attorney had pressed the envelope into my hands in the parking lot. “Read this somewhere safe,” he’d said quietly.

I hadn’t opened it yet. I already knew what it contained. Grandpa had told me everything months ago during one of our long phone calls when I was stationed states away. He trusted me with the truth because he didn’t trust anyone else with it. Not my parents, not my siblings.