Jessica smiled.
The tension inside her finally loosened.
Not completely.
It never did.
They ate pie.
They talked about ordinary things.
Patricia complained about a neighbor who left trash cans out for three days.
Jessica complained about airport security lines.
Neither mentioned Crawford for nearly twenty minutes.
That silence felt different.
Healthy.
Chosen.
Eventually Patricia looked across the table.
“Can I ask one thing?”
Jessica put down her fork.
“One.”
“Major?”
Jessica smiled.
“Yes.”
Patricia shook her head.
“I’m never getting used to that.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m still your daughter.”
Her mother’s expression softened.
“Always.”
Jessica looked toward the diner window.
A small American flag fluttered above the parking lot.
Nothing dramatic.
Just cloth moving in warm air.
Patricia reached across the table.
Jessica took her hand.
For years, Jessica had believed strength meant keeping parts of herself separate.
The officer.
The daughter.
The operator.
The survivor.
