In that moment, something inside me finally settled.
“Okay,” I said.
The calm in my voice startled even me.
“I’ll go change.”
Aaron snorted. “Into what? A uniform from the gift shop?”
I didn’t answer.
I walked away.
The doors closed behind me, cutting off the music and the curated warmth, and I stood in the quiet hallway long enough to feel the humiliation finish its work. Then I exhaled slowly, the way I’d been trained to do in moments when emotion threatened judgment.
They didn’t know.
They had never asked.
The parking garage was dim and cold, the concrete damp from earlier rain. I reached my vehicle and opened the trunk, pushing aside a garment bag I’d told myself I wouldn’t need tonight.
I had wanted—foolishly—to attend as a daughter.
But they had made it clear.
They wanted a prop.
The uniform was heavy in my hands, familiar in a way no dress had ever been. I changed quickly, methodically, muscle memory taking over where emotion had failed me. I pinned each ribbon with care, fastened each button, and finally slid the boards onto my shoulders.
Two silver stars caught the fluorescent light.
I didn’t rush.
I didn’t hesitate.
I walked back inside through the main entrance.
