My name is Major Molly Martin. I am thirty-five years old, and I recently buried the only man who ever truly knew me—not the insignia on my uniform or the discipline in my stance, but the woman beneath it all.
Less than a day after a folded American flag was placed into my trembling hands, I stood outside my own home and watched it being emptied. Movers passed me carrying furniture as if they were performing a task stripped of all respect. At the center of the operation stood my father-in-law, Raymond, a clipboard tucked under his arm, issuing commands with the calm certainty of a man who believed he was correcting a mistake.
“The legacy belongs with the bloodline,” he said coolly, never meeting my eyes. “Your role here is complete.”
My mother-in-law, Patricia, wore her familiar, polished smile—the one that never reached her eyes. She lifted our wedding photo from the mantel, slid my image out, and dropped it into the trash. “We’ll keep Marcus,” she said lightly. “He doesn’t need distractions anymore.”
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