My father walked with a stiff, exaggerated march—a strut he thought looked soldierly but actually looked like untreated arthritis. “Elena,” my father said, not bothering with a greeting. He stopped three feet away, looking me up and down with a sneer that curled his lip. “I specifically told you this was a black-tie event. You look like you’re going to a funeral for a hamster.”
“It’s a cocktail dress, Dad,” I said quietly, keeping my voice neutral. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s cheap,” Kevin chimed in, swirling his scotch so the ice clinked against the glass. “But I guess that’s what happens when you work a government desk job. What is it you do again? Filing tax returns for the motor pool?”
“Logistics,” I said. It was the standard lie I had used for fifteen years. It was boring, unglamorous, and perfectly designed to make their eyes glaze over. “I handle supply chain paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” My father scoffed, shaking his head as if I had personally insulted the flag. “I raised a warrior, and I got a secretary. You know, General Sterling is coming tonight. A four-star General. An actual war hero. Try not to embarrass me when he gets here.”
He leaned in closer, the smell of cheap scotch and stale cologne washing over me. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. Just fade into the wallpaper.”
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