I invited my parents again, thinking maybe they’d want to see their grandson blow out candles. Sierra arrived wearing designer sunglasses indoors and spent the party taking photos of our secondhand furniture, posting them online with captions about how sad it was that Hunter had to grow up in poverty. My mom texted me the next day saying it would be better if I stopped trying to force family gatherings.
I didn’t invite them again for a long time. Those early years taught me real fast that Sierra didn’t just dislike me. She hated the idea that I could survive without her approval.
Dr. Alvarez nodded slowly. “Let me tell you a secret,” she said, leaning forward.
“Big people cry too. Grown-ups, teachers, doctors, people on TV. Crying is not a baby thing.
But she didn’t turn. She didn’t defend me. She just shifted her weight, the silk of her gown rustling, and angled her body slightly away, pretending to be absorbed in a conversation with her new mother‑in‑law.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t even move. My training, the brutal, relentless discipline hammered into my soul at Quantico, took over.
