My teacher held up the photograph of my mother beside an F-22 and told the class,
“Let’s keep our heroes believable.”
Thirty students laughed at me.
A few hours later, an admiral saw my name on the Heroes’ Week program, stood without warning, and ordered the auditorium doors opened.
That was when my teacher’s smile disappeared.
I was the kind of student adults forgot as soon as the bell rang.
I sat near the windows, wore secondhand sneakers, and spoke only when someone called on me. Most classmates noticed me only when they wanted homework answers.
During Heroes’ Week, everyone had to present a family member they admired.
One student brought a firefighter helmet. Another showed a video of his uncle returning from deployment. The popular kids had polished slideshows, music, and dramatic speeches.
I had one folded photograph.
It showed my mother, Rachel Miller, standing beside a gray fighter jet on a sunlit runway. She wore a flight suit and dark sunglasses, with one hand resting near the cockpit ladder.
