I HAD CROSSED OCEANS IN MY NAVY UNIFORM, BUT NOTHING PREPARED ME FOR WHAT I DISCOVERED AT MY PARENTS’ THANKSGIVING TABLE ABOUT MY GOLDEN-CHILD SISTER

Saturday night was crisp and clear. For the first time in as long as I could remember, the house on Maple Lane felt entirely our own.

Dad and I spent the afternoon cooking a simple dinner—roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and green beans. No silver candelabras. No expensive imported wine. Just good food, comfortable clothes, and a jazz record playing softly on the old stereo in the corner.

As we sat down at the kitchen table—not the formal dining room table where the ambush had taken place days earlier, but the cozy kitchen table where real families actually lived—Dad raised his glass of iced tea.

“To new anchors,” Dad said, his eyes bright.

I clinked my glass against his. “To new anchors.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Dad cleared his throat, setting his fork down.

“Lauri... your leave ends on Monday. Are you ready to head back to Norfolk?”

I looked around the warm, brightly lit kitchen, then back at my father, whose posture was straighter, whose face had regained some of its old color, and whose home was finally secure.

“My ship deploys for a three-month Mediterranean rotation next month,” I said honestly. “I have to report back for duty on Monday morning. That part doesn't change.”

Dad nodded slowly, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. “I know. A sailor’s got to sail. But... you’re coming back when you rotate home, right?”

“Try and stop me,” I smiled. “I already talked to my commanding officer about putting in for a shore-duty rotation here at the naval base in two years. Close enough to keep an eye on your cholesterol, Dad.”

He laughed out loud—a rich, booming sound that chased away the last lingering ghosts of the dining room drama.