“I’m 49,” I said.
He shrugged. “Women today… biology doesn’t negotiate.”
My mother’s laugh came out too tight. “Mark, Sam’s done wonderfully. I’m so proud of her.”
“Of course,” he said, like he was granting permission. “I’m just being realistic. Old-fashioned, maybe.”
I excused myself early. I said I was exhausted.
That part was true.
Part 2 — The House Started Feeling Smaller
In my childhood bedroom, the walls still held my old Academy photos and a faded USS Enterprise poster. The nostalgia should’ve felt like safety. Instead, the house felt like it was slowly being claimed.
I heard them in the kitchen through the old walls. Mark’s voice carried like it belonged everywhere. “She’s a little defensive,” he said. My mother answered softly, trying to smooth it down. Then he said, “There’s a way to speak to people respectfully.”
And I realized he thought he was the standard.
The next morning, before dawn, he acted like the kitchen was a base he ran. “Coffee’s there,” he said, gesturing toward the pot as if granting permission. I sat with my tablet, reviewing messages from Captain Ruiz and my staff—work that didn’t pause just because I was home. Mark moved through cabinets with purposeful noise, a little too loud. He wanted a reaction.
He didn’t get it. So he kept pushing.
“You’re only here two days,” he said.
“Three,” I corrected. “I leave Sunday.”
He nodded like he’d filed that away as a deficiency. “Must be hard on her. You being gone so much.”
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