By Emily J. Carter • January 26, 2026 • Share
The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Dominion Country Club were not just bright; they were aggressive. They shimmered with a piercing luminosity that seemed designed to induce a migraine, casting harsh, unforgiving light on everything below.
I stood near the back of the ballroom, retreating into the shadows of a velvet drape, and adjusted the strap of my modest black dress. It was a department store rack piece—a poly-blend that had cost me exactly fifty dollars on clearance. My mother had already told me twice, in that whisper-shout she reserved for public reprimands, that it made me look like “the hired help.”
I took a sip of my lukewarm sparkling water and checked my watch, counting the minutes until escape was socially acceptable. I wasn’t here to impress anyone. I wasn’t here to network. I was here because it was the Diamond Jubilee for my father, Victor Ross.
Victor was turning sixty, and true to form, he had turned the event into a shrine to his own ego. A massive vinyl banner hung over the stage, the letters printed in gold leaf: “Lieutenant Colonel Ross: A Legacy of Command.”
He was currently working the room near the buffet, his laughter booming over the polite, murmuring chatter of the guests. He was wearing his old Army Mess Dress uniform—the formal evening attire of a bygone era. It was tight around the waist, straining dangerously at the cummerbund, and the jacket buttons looked like they were holding on for dear life.
He had retired twenty years ago as a Lieutenant Colonel—an O-5. A respectable rank, certainly, but to Victor, it was the summit of human achievement. He wore that uniform to the grocery store on Veterans Day if he thought he could get a discount. To him, rank was the only metric that made a human being worth the oxygen they consumed.
I watched him corner a local city councilman near the shrimp tower. My father was gesturing wildly, a scotch in one hand, talking about “holding the line” in conflicts that had ended before the councilman was born.
He looked ridiculous—a peacock whose feathers had long since molted—but nobody had the courage, or perhaps the cruelty, to tell him. My brother, Kevin, stood next to him, holding a scotch glass like a prop he’d seen in a movie about Wall Street. Kevin was thirty-five, sold overpriced insurance to the elderly, and still brought his laundry to our parents’ house on Sundays. He was my father’s echo, loud but hollow.
Kevin spotted me in the corner and nudged my father. They both turned. The expressions on their faces shifted in perfect synchronization from prideful arrogance to mild, curdled disgust. It was the look you give a stray dog that has managed to sneak into a five-star restaurant. They made their way over to me.
My father walked with a stiff, exaggerated march—a strut he thought looked soldierly but actually looked like untreated arthritis. “Elena,” my father said, not bothering with a greeting. He stopped three feet away, looking me up and down with a sneer that curled his lip. “I specifically told you this was a black-tie event. You look like you’re going to a funeral for a hamster.”
“It’s a cocktail dress, Dad,” I said quietly, keeping my voice neutral. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s cheap,” Kevin chimed in, swirling his scotch so the ice clinked against the glass. “But I guess that’s what happens when you work a government desk job. What is it you do again? Filing tax returns for the motor pool?”
“Logistics,” I said. It was the standard lie I had used for fifteen years. It was boring, unglamorous, and perfectly designed to make their eyes glaze over. “I handle supply chain paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” My father scoffed, shaking his head as if I had personally insulted the flag. “I raised a warrior, and I got a secretary. You know, General Sterling is coming tonight. A four-star General. An actual war hero. Try not to embarrass me when he gets here.”
He leaned in closer, the smell of cheap scotch and stale cologne washing over me. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. Just fade into the wallpaper.”
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