My work expanded. The O-5 position came with broader responsibilities, oversight of training programs, coordination across units, strategic planning that would affect operations years down the line. I mentored younger officers, particularly women navigating the particular challenges of military service in a structure still adjusting to full integration. One of them, a captain named Reeves, came to me about dealing with dismissive comments from a male colleague. She was frustrated, angry, trying to decide whether to file a formal complaint or just deal with it.
“What do you want to happen?” I asked.
She blinked. “I want him to stop.”
“Then that’s what you advocate for. Not punishment necessarily, but behavioral change. Clear, documented, with command authority backing you up.”
“What if they say I’m overreacting?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then their opinion of your reaction is their problem, not yours. Your job is to set the boundary and enforce it.”
She left my office looking steadier. A month later, I heard the situation had been resolved—a formal counseling session, command making it clear the behavior was unacceptable, and a noticeable change in the workplace dynamic.
I thought about how similar that was to my situation with Karen, except there was no command structure to enforce accountability in family relationships. You just had to do it yourself, knowing that enforcement might mean distance. That realization brought a kind of peace. I couldn’t control Karen’s behavior. I couldn’t make my brother see the situation before he was ready. I couldn’t force my family into choosing sides or issuing ultimatums. But I could control my own boundaries, my own presence, my own willingness to accept certain treatments. And I could do it without anger, without bitterness, just with clear-eyed understanding of what I deserved.
One evening, my father called.
“Your mother and I are proud of you. Not just the promotion—though that too—but how you’ve handled this whole situation.”
“I haven’t done anything special.”
“You’ve held your ground without burning bridges. You’ve been clear without being cruel. That’s harder than people think.”
“It doesn’t feel hard. It just feels necessary.”
“That’s because you’ve been doing it so long in your professional life. It’s become natural. But watching you apply it to family, that’s been something to see.”
We talked for a while longer about nothing particularly important, just the comfortable conversation of people who’ve known each other forever. After we hung up, I sat on my back deck watching the sun set over the base housing complex. Planes took off in the distance, their engines a familiar rumble. Somewhere out there, young airmen were standing watch, running operations, serving in ways most civilians would never see or understand.
Karen thought my service made me less. The military had taught me it made me more.
Six months after the dinner incident, Karen sent a long message. Not a text this time—an email, carefully composed, multiple paragraphs. I read it twice before deciding how to respond.
“Linda,” it began. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened at the family dinner, and I realize I owe you a real apology. Not the brief text I sent before, which I can see now wasn’t sufficient. When I made that comment about you being drunk, I was projecting my own insecurities onto you. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and inadequate in a lot of areas of my life. And instead of dealing with that, I focused on perceived flaws in others. You became an easy target because your life is so different from mine. And I didn’t take the time to understand what you’ve actually experienced or sacrificed. I should have asked about your injury. I should have considered that there might be explanations I didn’t know. Instead, I jumped to conclusions that fit my narrative about you being distant or judging my choices. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’m not asking you to forgive me immediately or to pretend this didn’t happen. I just wanted you to know that I see now what I did, and I’m working on being better. If you’re ever willing to talk, I’d like to listen. If not, I understand. Karen.”
I read it a third time, looking for the same careful deflection I’d seen in the text. It wasn’t there. This felt different, uncomfortable in the way genuine apologies often are, taking responsibility without hedging or qualifying.
I sat with it for 2 days before responding. Daniel called during that time.
“She told me she was going to write to you. A real apology.”
“I got it, and it’s better, but I’m not sure what I want to do with it yet.”
“That’s fair.” He sounded relieved that I was at least considering it. “She’s been in therapy. Not because of this specifically, but it’s come up. She’s starting to recognize some patterns in how she treats people when she feels threatened.”
“I’m glad she’s getting help. But Daniel, that doesn’t automatically reset our relationship.”
“I know. I just thought you should know she’s trying.”
I appreciated that he was telling me without pressuring me, without asking me to make it easy for her. That was growth, too—his ability to let uncomfortable situations stay uncomfortable until they were genuinely resolved.
I replied to Karen’s email three days later.
“Karen, bedankt voor je excuses. Ik waardeer het dat je de tijd hebt genomen om na te denken en uit te leggen wat er met je aan de hand was. Je hebt gelijk dat mijn leven anders is dan het jouwe en dat die verschillen spanning tussen ons hebben veroorzaakt. Ik ben blij dat je eraan werkt om je patronen te begrijpen. Ik ben er nog niet klaar voor om weer regelmatig contact te hebben of samen naar evenementen te gaan. De blessure die je hebt gezien, is een blijvende herinnering aan een zeer moeilijke periode in mijn leven. En dat het werd gebruikt als bewijs van zwakte of falen, was erg pijnlijk. Ik heb meer tijd nodig om erop te vertrouwen dat de dynamiek tussen ons daadwerkelijk is veranderd. Als je het meent en echt wilt luisteren en leren, sta ik daar uiteindelijk wel voor open, maar het moet langzaam gebeuren, op een manier die voor mij veilig aanvoelt. Linda.”
Haar antwoord volgde snel. Slechts een paar regels.
“Ik begrijp het. Neem gerust de tijd die je nodig hebt. Ik ben er voor je als je er klaar voor bent.”
Geen druk, geen tijdschema, geen aandrang dat we familie waren en daarom dit snel achter ons moesten laten – alleen acceptatie. Ik voelde dat er iets veranderde. Niet per se vergeving, maar misschien wel het begin van de mogelijkheid daartoe.
Ondertussen was mijn broer steeds meer aanwezig. Hij bezocht me op de basis, nam de kinderen mee om te zien waar ik werkte en stelde serieuze vragen over mijn taken en verantwoordelijkheden. Zijn oudere dochter, Emma, van tien jaar en vol nieuwsgierigheid, wilde alles weten.
‘Ben je echt neergeschoten?’ vroeg ze, met grote ogen.
‘Ja, precies hier.’ Ik liet haar het litteken zien, niet om haar te traumatiseren, maar om het te normaliseren. ‘Het deed toen pijn, maar nu gaat het goed. Mijn hand trilt soms, maar dat weerhoudt me er niet van om mijn werk te doen.’
‘Was je bang?’
“Ja, maar ik had een training gevolgd en ik had de missie om iemand te helpen die gewond was. De training hielp me om te doen wat ik moest doen, ook al was ik bang.”
Ze dacht daarover na. « Ik wil net zo dapper zijn als jij. »
“Je bent dapper. Dapper zijn betekent niet dat je niet bang bent. Het betekent dat je het juiste doet, zelfs als je bang bent.”
Daniel keek toe met een uitdrukking die ik niet helemaal kon plaatsen. Later, toen ze weggingen, trok hij me apart.
« Dankjewel daarvoor. Dat je eerlijk met haar hebt gepraat. Ze is een slim meisje. Ze kan eerlijke antwoorden aan. Karen zou haar hebben gezegd er niet naar te vragen. Ze zou jouw blessure als iets beschamends of privés hebben behandeld. »
‘Ik weet het. Ik begin nu veel dingen te zien die ik eerder over het hoofd heb gezien,’ zei hij zachtjes. ‘Het spijt me dat het zo lang heeft geduurd.’
“Je ziet ze nu. Dat is wat telt.”
Een jaar na het etentje was ik op een familiebijeenkomst waar Karen ook was. Het was geen dramatische verzoening, maar gewoon een stille overeenkomst dat er genoeg tijd was verstreken en genoeg werk was verzet om het weer in dezelfde ruimte te proberen. Mijn ouders organiseerden een zomerbarbecue. Karen kwam apart van Daniel en de kinderen, wat ik op prijs stelde. Ze maakte geen show van me benaderen, probeerde me niet te omhelzen of geforceerd vertrouwd met me te zijn. Ze zei gewoon hallo, vroeg of ik iets uit de keuken nodig had en gaf me de ruimte.
Throughout the afternoon, I watched her interact with others. The sharp edge I’d noticed before seemed softer. She listened more, dominated conversations less, seemed genuinely interested in my mother’s stories about her gardening club and my father’s golf complaints. When my hand tremored while I was carrying plates to the table, she didn’t comment, didn’t stare, didn’t look away dramatically, just treated it as normal. That small non-reaction felt like the most honest acknowledgement possible.
Later, she approached me when I was alone on the deck.
“Can I say something?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about what I didn’t understand before. About service, about what it costs. I started volunteering with a veteran support group, just administrative stuff, filing, organizing events. But I’ve been hearing stories.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“It’s helped me see how much I didn’t see, how narrow my definition of value was. I measured everything by corporate metrics and social status. And I made you small in my mind because you didn’t fit that framework. I’m sorry, not just for the dinner, but for all of it. All the comments and judgments that led up to that moment.”
I looked at her carefully, trying to assess sincerity. What I saw was uncomfortable self-awareness, the kind that comes from actually confronting your own failures rather than just performing contrition.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “And I appreciate the work you’re doing. But Karen, I need you to understand the relationship we had before is gone. If we’re going to have any relationship going forward, it has to be built on who we both are now, not who we were trying to be then.”
“I understand. Can we try?”
