Chapter 14 - Final Preparations
The final two weeks before deployment flew by in a blur of supply audits, secure communication checks, and endless briefings.
On a rare weekend liberty pass, I drove back home to Maple Lane for a quick forty-eight-hour visit.
The house looked immaculate. Dad had painted the front porch railing a crisp white, and the autumn leaves had been neatly raked into bags by the curb. When I walked through the front door, there was no tension in the air, no walking on eggshells, no waiting for the other shoe to drop.
We spent Saturday evening sitting on the back patio, grilling steaks and talking about ordinary things—Dad’s new carpentry projects, my upcoming ports of call in the Mediterranean, and his plans to plant a vegetable garden in the spring.
“You know, Lauri,” Dad said, flipping a steak with long metal tongs, “for a long time, I thought getting older meant losing your voice—letting everyone else steer the ship while you just sat quietly in the cabin.”
“Getting older just means you finally figure out who’s worth sailing with,” I smiled, handing him a fresh plate.
May you like
That night, lying in my old childhood bedroom—which finally felt like my room instead of a temporary storage closet for someone else’s expectations—I slept more soundly than I had in years. The ghosts of the dining room ambush were gone, exorcised by truth, boundaries, and time.
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