what came through the door was the version of her that asked about my homework and made the rice the way I liked it and fell asleep on the couch watching the nature channel because she was always, always tired.
I did not know, exactly, what she did.
I knew she flew. I had known that since I was small — the flight suit, the photograph she kept on the dresser of herself on a runway somewhere I couldn’t identify, the way she walked with a specific quality of controlled awareness
that I would understand better later as the posture of someone trained to maintain situational awareness at all times, in all environments. I knew she flew something fast and important. I knew it required years of training and regular recertification and the kind of mental focus that meant she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night and sat in the kitchen with a glass of water and a look on her face that I had learned not to interrupt.
She had never told me to be proud of
