I walked into the living room wearing the dress I had secretly sewn from my father’s old army uniform. The olive fabric was heavy, the faded patches carefully preserved, and every stitch felt like a piece of him I refused to lose. My stepmother, Camila, looked me over before laughing. Her daughters joined her, mocking the worn insignia and calling the dress ridiculous. To them, it was outdated cloth. To me, it was the closest thing I had left to my father’s protection.
Before I could respond, three sharp knocks sounded at the front door. The laughter stopped. Camila opened it and found a uniformed military officer standing on the porch with an official envelope in his hand. He asked for me by my full name, then explained that my father had arranged this delivery years earlier for this exact date. Camila grabbed the envelope first, still wearing a smug smile—until she noticed the government seal. She opened it, read several lines, and suddenly her hands began shaking.
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