I folded the paper back up, slid it into my notebook right next to my mother’s photograph, and went back to my book.
During lunch, the cafeteria dynamics had shifted entirely.
The boys who had called me “Commander Lucas” the day before now avoided looking at my table altogether. They gave me a wide berth, whispering behind their milk cartons whenever I walked past. People were suddenly polite, but it was a cautious, nervous politeness—the kind people reserve for things they know can explode if handled carelessly.
I sat alone near the window, watching the autumn leaves blow across the concrete courtyard.
Part 5: The Weight of the Truth
That evening, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table cleaning her service boots with a rag, the faint smell of polish filling the room.
I sat across from her, turning the folded photograph over in my hands.
“Mr. Reynolds gave me an apology today,” I said quietly.
