For years, I’d played the role of the supportive sister. The one who sent postcards and care packages from whichever base I was stationed at. The one who did her best to bridge the gap between Vanessa and reality. But standing on that sidewalk, I realized the price of keeping up the facade had become too high.

As I turned to leave, a part of me hoped that this collapse would be a wake-up call for my sister. Perhaps she’d learn that relationships are not transactions, that money doesn’t equate to love or respect. But I knew better than to hold my breath.

Walking away, I felt the weight of the world lift slightly off my shoulders, the burden of an unfair expectation finally breaking. With each step, I felt more grounded, reclaiming the parts of myself I had sacrificed at the altar of family loyalty.

Vanessa would eventually figure out a solution—she always did. Whether through our parents stepping in or her fiancé coming to the rescue, the wedding would happen. But it would no longer be my problem.

I passed by the historic Charleston storefronts, the sun glinting off the ocean far down the street, and pulled my phone out again. Scrolling through my contacts, I found my commanding officer’s number. I needed to return to the people who valued me not for the money I could provide, but for the strength and dedication I brought to my work.

With a deep breath, I dialed the number, the phone ringing as I continued down the street. The call connected, and I heard the familiar voice on the other end.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m ready to come back early if there’s an opening.”

As we discussed logistics, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. The future was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, it was mine. I hung up and took one last look at Everly & Co., the scene inside still unfolding. Then I turned and walked toward a future that was finally mine to shape—no longer shadowed by someone else’s dreams.