They Called Me a Nobody
They called me a nobody with their mouths full of steak. It was the kind of restaurant that makes you feel underdressed even when you’re dressed up—the kind with candles that burn low and servers who glide like they’re trained not to make noise, like sound itself might disturb the carefully constructed atmosphere of wealth and importance. My sister Melody picked it.
She said it was “close to the base” and “classy enough for a promotion dinner,” and my parents nodded like the reservation itself proved she mattered, like the ability to book a table at an overpriced steakhouse was evidence of achievement. I paid for it. Not because I wanted credit.
Not because I needed them to acknowledge the gesture or thank me or even remember who covered the bill. Because I’d learned years ago that the easiest way to keep the peace in my family was to offer something they couldn’t refuse, then stay quiet while they took it and convinced themselves it had been their idea all along. I told myself it would be different this time.
I told myself maybe a celebration would soften everyone, would create space for something resembling connection. Five years of ghosting doesn’t soften. It calcifies into something harder than bone.
The private room was set with heavy linen napkins and silverware that looked too sharp for comfort, the kind of cutlery that costs more per place setting than some people make in a day. Everyone had a name card except me. Melody’s read Captain Strickland, pinned with a tiny American flag like she was accepting a political nomination.
Dad’s said Mr. Strickland in elegant script. Mom’s said Diane with a small flower drawn in the corner.
Even my cousin’s plus-one—a woman I’d never met and would probably never see again—had a name card with careful calligraphy. Mine was just blank cardstock, folded and empty, like they couldn’t decide what to call me. Or like they’d decided I didn’t deserve a name at all.
I wore a black blazer that used to fit before my last deployment and the years that followed—years of trying to rebuild a life from rubble, years of learning that some kinds of damage don’t show up on medical charts. The zipper didn’t quite close anymore, so I left it open and sat with my back straight anyway. Straight posture is free.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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