Chapter 5 - The Domestic Front
While the digital war room hummed beneath the Pentagon, the domestic front presented an entirely different kind of tactical challenge.
It was Saturday morning, and Daniel and I were unpacking boxes in our new quarters at Fort Myer when my secure landline phone rang. Not my cell phone—the encrypted red phone sitting on the mahogany desk in my study.
I picked up the receiver. “General Hayes.”
“Rebecca, darling, it’s your mother.”
The tone wasn't cold or venomous this time. It was dripping with a sickly-sweet, theatrical warmth that immediately set off every alarm bell in my head.
“Mother,” I said cautiously. “To what do I owe the call?”
“Oh, we’re just in Washington! Your father and I have been invited to a charity gala at the congressional club tonight, and since we’re in the area, we thought we’d stop by your new house for brunch. See how the married couple is settling in.”
“Mother, I’m currently reviewing classified operational briefs—”
“Nonsense!” she interrupted smoothly. “We’re already pulling through the security gates at Fort Myer. The guard at the gate checked our names off the list—your father made sure of that. We’ll be at your front door in two minutes. Bye, darling!”
Click.
I stared at the dead receiver for three seconds before slamming it down onto the cradle.
Daniel walked into the study carrying a stack of books, raising an eyebrow at my expression. “Trouble?”
“My parents are at the security gate,” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “They’re pulling up to the house right now for unannounced brunch.”
Daniel laughed, setting the books down on the shelf. “Well, your mother’s social climbing instincts are nothing if not resilient. Shall I make pancakes or order tactical rations?”
Before I could answer, the front doorbell rang—sharp, demanding, and repetitive.
I walked down the hallway, opened the heavy oak front door, and found my mother standing on the porch wearing an oversized Chanel tweed suit and matching sunglasses, while my father stood behind her holding a leather briefcase like an anxious executive waiting for an audience with the CEO.
“Rebecca!” my mother chirped, breezing past me into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. “Goodness, military housing has gotten so dreadfully sterile. You really ought to hire an interior decorator to soften the place up. All these dark wood tones look like a barracks.”
“Welcome, Mother. Father,” I said, closing the door behind them. “To what do I actually owe this surprise visit? You don't drive down from New York just for brunch.”
My father set his briefcase down on the hall table, adjusting his tie with a stiff, nervous gesture. He cleared his throat.
“We have a proposition, Rebecca,” my father said, walking into the living room where Daniel was pouring coffee.
My mother settled onto the sofa, smoothing her skirt as if she owned the furniture. “Your father’s firm is currently bidding on a major infrastructure development project for the naval shipyard in Norfolk. It’s a forty-million-dollar government contract.”
The pieces clicked together instantly.
“And you want me to use my influence as a combatant commander to fast-track your bid,” I said flatly, crossing my arms over my chest.
My mother scoffed, waving a manicured hand dismissively. “Influence? Don't be so dramatic, Rebecca. It’s called family support! Other generals’ families secure government contracts all the time. It’s standard practice in Washington. You have the stroke now; it’s time you used it to help your own flesh and blood instead of pouring all your energy into foreign wars.”
I stared at them, feeling a cold, hollow wave of disbelief wash over me. They hadn't come to visit because they missed their daughter. They hadn't come to celebrate my promotion or my wedding. They had driven down from New York purely to treat my hard-earned military rank as a family nepotism ATM.
“No,” I said.
The word dropped into the room like a lead weight.
My mother’s smile vanished instantly. Her face hardened into a mask of indignant fury. “Excuse me?”
“I said no,” I repeated, my voice steady and cold. “My command is not a family slush fund. The bidding process for naval infrastructure is strictly regulated by federal procurement laws, and I will not compromise my ethics—or my career—so my father can secure a forty-million-dollar handout.”
My father stood up, his face flushing crimson with anger. “I raised you! I paid for your private schooling, your clothes, your upbringing! And now that you’re sitting in some fancy Pentagon office with stars on your shoulders, you won't lift a finger to help your own father?”
“You paid for my upbringing because it was your legal obligation,” I replied, stepping forward until I towered over him. “And every single thing I have achieved in my life—every rank, every medal, every responsibility—I earned with my own sweat and blood. You didn't buy my stars, Father. And you certainly aren't going to rent them.”
My mother stood up, trembling with rage, pointing a shaking finger at my face.
“You ungrateful, cold-hearted, masculine bitch!” she screamed, dropping all pretense of polite society manners. “You’ve always been impossible! No wonder you couldn't find a normal husband without trapping him in a military cult! Come along, Arthur—we’re leaving. We don't need charity from a daughter who forgot how to be a woman.”
They stormed out of the house, slamming the front door so hard the framed military commendations on the hallway wall rattled against the drywall.
Daniel walked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
May you like
I let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against his chest.
“Yeah,” I whispered, watching through the front window as their luxury sedan tore down the driveway. “For the first time in my life... I think I finally am.”
