Chapter 7
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Mom stopped asking whether I could “just tell my boss” I needed holidays off.
When I said work might interfere, she said, “We’ll save you a plate.”
That small sentence meant more than she knew.
Tyler stopped correcting me about geopolitics.
Mostly.
He was still Tyler.
But the biggest change was Frank.
Three months later, he called me.
Not because he wanted classified information.
Not because he wanted to brag about me.
He was speaking to a group of ROTC cadets about leadership and wanted my opinion on something.
“My talk has a section about decision-making under uncertainty,” he said.
I waited.
“What?”
“I want your perspective.”
I smiled.
“You’re asking an analyst?”
“I’m asking someone who knows more about it than I do.”
That was different.
So I helped him.
A year later, Thanksgiving returned.
Same house.
Same turkey.
Same overcooked green beans.
Same people.
At some point, inevitably, conversation drifted toward international security.
Tyler started explaining something he had heard on a podcast.
Frank listened.
Then Tyler turned toward him.
“What do you think, Uncle Frank?”
Frank took a drink.
“I think there are too many variables for me to pretend I know.”
I looked up.
He caught my eye.
I smiled.
Tyler looked disappointed.
“But hypothetically?”
Frank shrugged.
“Ask Tanya.”
The table went quiet.
Mom smiled.
Jason leaned back.
Tyler turned toward me.
I shook my head.
“Nope.”
Frank laughed.
“Why not?”
I reached for the mashed potatoes.
“Because I’m off duty.”
Everyone laughed.
And just like that, the moment passed.
No dramatic revelation.
No salute.
No speech about how brilliant I was.
I preferred it that way.
Later that evening, Frank stopped me by the door.
“Hey.”
“What?”
He handed me my coat.
“I never told Reeves what happened last Thanksgiving.”
“Good.”
“But I did tell him something.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“What?”
“I told him he was right.”
“About?”
Frank smiled.
“That I should listen to you.”
I put on my coat.
“That must have hurt.”
“Terribly.”
I hugged him.
He held me a little tighter than usual.
“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Colonel.”
As I walked toward my car, my secure phone vibrated inside my bag.
Once.
Then again.
I stopped.
Behind me, warm light spilled from Mom’s windows onto the wet driveway.
Inside was my family.
People I loved.
People who had misunderstood me.
People who, finally, were learning that respect wasn’t something you reserved for impressive titles or classified responsibilities.