My parents threw me out on Christmas morning before they had even started preparing dinner. My sister lifted her champagne glass and laughed, “Go back to your barracks, loser.”

Chapter 11

I called Savannah twice more that night. The first time, she was hiding in the pantry because Michael’s mother had asked whether the turkey was organic and Savannah had needed a moment to decide whether that was a serious question. The second time, she called me back from the back porch, breath frosting in the cold air.

“He hasn’t proposed,” she said.

“It’s nine o’clock. Dinner isn’t over.”

“I know.”

“He’s probably waiting for the right moment.”

“That’s what I told myself at eight.”

“Sav, you’ve been with this man for four years. If he hasn’t proposed by now, it’s because he’s waiting for something specific — not because he doesn’t love you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve spent eleven years reading people for a living. Trust me.”

She laughed, but it was thin.

“I’m scared,” she said. “Not of him. Of tonight. Of everyone watching. Mom keeps looking at my left hand like it’s a countdown clock.”

“Then stop letting them watch.”

“What?”

“Take him somewhere quiet. Just the two of you. Whatever happens tonight, don’t let it happen on a stage.”

I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, considering the idea.

“You sound like Grandpa,” she said.

“Everyone keeps telling me that.”

“Maybe it’s not an insult.”

“I’m starting to think it isn’t.”

She laughed again, warmer this time.

“Merry Christmas, Fiona.”

“Merry Christmas, Sav.”

I lay awake in my quarters for a long time that night, listening to the wind push against the windows. The room was small and bare — a bed, a desk, a single chair, a window that looked out over a row of identical buildings. It smelled faintly of cleaning solution and cold air.

Not home.

But not wrong, either.

My phone buzzed around midnight. A message from Mom.

Turkey survived. Barely. Your father forgot to take the giblets out.

I laughed aloud in the dark, the sound swallowed by the small room.

A minute later, a photograph arrived. Dad standing beside the turkey with the expression of a man accused by poultry. Savannah in the background, caught mid-laugh. Michael beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder in a way that looked permanent.

No ring visible.

No staged perfection.

Just family.

Complicated. Imperfect. Still there.

I typed back.

Looks edible. Proud of you all.

A moment later, a text from a number I hadn’t expected to hear from that night.

Dad.

Debatable.

I smiled down at the screen for a long time.

Then I picked up Grandpa’s leather notebook, which I had brought from Hayes’s office, and began to read.

Some entries were serious. Reflections on programs that had worked and programs that had failed. Names of people he trusted, with notes about their strengths and their blind spots. Lessons learned the hard way, written down so he wouldn’t have to learn them twice.

Some entries were unexpectedly funny.

Never schedule a meeting after a colonoscopy.

James Hayes believes decaf is coffee. This raises serious questions about his judgment.

I laughed out loud, then covered my mouth, suddenly aware of how strange it must look — a captain in Army quarters laughing alone in the dark on Christmas night.

Then I reached a section I hadn’t expected.

Under the heading FAMILY, there were only a few pages.

Daniel wants approval but hears advice as criticism.

Margaret loves peace so much she sometimes pays too much for it.

Savannah is stronger than she knows and more frightened than she admits.

Then my name.

Fiona believes distance protects relationships.

Sometimes it only prevents them.

I stopped reading.

The sentence was not entirely fair.

But it was not entirely wrong.

I had spent years telling myself my family didn’t care about my life — that they saw my uniform and my silence and assumed failure. That belief had let me avoid a harder truth. They often didn’t understand my life. And I had rarely helped them understand it.

I told myself operational security explained everything.

Sometimes it did.

Often, though, I simply didn’t want to answer questions that might reveal uncertainty.

Was I lonely?

Sometimes.

Was I tired?

Often.

Did I ever doubt the choices I had made?

Of course. Every soldier does. You learn to walk with doubt the way you learn to walk with a limp — you stop noticing the weight, but it’s always there.

But I returned home wearing competence like body armor. Then resented them for assuming I needed nothing.

Grandpa had seen all of it.

He had written it down in a notebook he knew I would one day hold.

And he had left it to me to decide what to do with the truth.

I closed the notebook and turned off the light, but I didn’t sleep for a long time.