I did not choose the Air Force in one moment. I chose it in small ones, at our kitchen table on Chestnut Street, with college catalogs spread and Dad pretending he was only there for coffee.
"You are sure about this ROTC thing?" he asked, during my senior year of high school.
"I am sure I want to try," I said. "They help with tuition, Dad. And I like the structure."
Mom set down her mug. "Structure is fine, Julia. We just need to hear you say what it means."
"It means I train while I am in school. If I finish, I commission as an officer."
"An officer," Dad repeated. "In the Air Force."
"Yes."
He nodded, like he was lifting something heavy. "Then we will learn the words right."
At the University of Pittsburgh, I learned them fast. Five a.m. formations when the campus was still dark. Uniform inspections in the cold. A senior cadet named Ellis who never raised her voice.
"Romano, why are you here?" she asked me once, after drill.
"To serve, ma'am."
"That is the poster answer. Try again."
I swallowed. "Because I am good when things get tangled. I want work where that matters."
"Better," she said. "Hold on to that."
I held on through four years of classes and nights studying with my uniform laid out for morning. Nico watched it all from our doorway.
"You iron that shirt like it owes you money," he said once.
"It has to be perfect," I said.
"It is a shirt, Jules."
"It is a promise you can see."
He rolled his eyes, but he stayed and talked while I worked, about school, about girls. Back then, talking was easy.
Commissioning day was crowded, families packed shoulder to shoulder. I stood in my new uniform and tried not to lock my knees. When they called my name, I heard Mom first.
"That is her," she said, too loud, and then she started crying and did not apologize for it.
Afterward Dad held my face in both hands, careful, like I might break or fly.
"Lieutenant Romano," he said.
"Dad, you do not have to call me that."
"I know. Let me say it once." His voice caught. "We are proud of you. We are scared in the right amount, your mother says."
Mom hugged me hard. "I said a normal amount. Do not let him rewrite me."
"I heard both versions," I said. "I love you both for it."
Nico was seventeen then, tall and restless. He tugged my sleeve. "So you give orders now?"
"Small ones," I said. "Mostly to myself."
"Good. Keep practicing. You will need the skill for me."
Two years later, he used it against us all. He was nineteen, working at the auto shop on Liberty Avenue, coming home with grease under his nails and a look I knew too well. He waited until dinner was cleared.
"I enlisted," he said. "Marines. I signed this morning."
Mom went still. "Nico."
"I was going to tell you before. I knew you would try to talk me straight."
"We would have listened," Dad said quietly.
"You would have worried out loud until I agreed to wait. I am not waiting."
I felt proud and afraid in the same breath, and neither one won. "Why the Marines?" I asked.
"Because it is hard. Because I want to earn something nobody can hand me." He looked at me, steady. "Like you did."
"This is not like me. My path had classrooms. Yours could have..." I stopped.
"Say it," he said.
"Yours could take you places phones do not reach. That scares me."
"Me too," he admitted. "A little. Do not tell Mom I said that."
"I would never," I said, and we both smiled because Mom was right there, listening to every word.
That night was the last one before everything split. My bags were packed for my first assignment. Nico left for boot camp in nine days. We sat on the back porch steps with two mugs of tea Mom had made and neither of us drank.
"You will tell me the real stuff, right?" he asked. "Not the family newsletter version."
"If you do the same," I said.
"I am serious, Jules. No editing to make me feel better."
"I know. Same rule for you. If it is bad, say it is bad. If you are scared, say that too."
He bumped my shoulder with his. "And if it is classified?"
"Then I will say I cannot say that part, but I will tell you the rest. The true rest."
"Deal," he said. "Always?"
"Always," I said.
We sat until the porch light buzzed and the street went quiet, two uniforms waiting in two closets, believing a promise could hold any distance.
Chapter 4: The Georgia Story