A month later.

May 17th, 2010

As I lay in bed, I did the math in my head and realized it was 4 AM Pacific Time, which meant it was 7 AM back home in the Central United States. Despite the early hour, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of my family waking up and sending me birthday messages.

I wasn't thrilled about having to work today, but I wasn't going to complain. The messages from my family—the Watersons—made it all worthwhile. My cousins, aunts, uncles, and even some extended family members had taken the time to wish me a happy birthday. It felt like a warm hug from miles away.

My dad's message stood out. He mentioned he had a surprise for me but would reveal it tomorrow since he knew my work schedule. Every other week, I shared my schedule with him, so he always knew when I'd be home or at work. His promise of a belated birthday surprise added a touch of excitement to my day.

My mom, on the other hand, didn't wish me a happy birthday. It didn't surprise me, nor did I expect her to. She probably didn't even remember the date. She didn't know or care that I was turning 26 today. I felt a pang of sadness but quickly brushed it off. I was 26 now, and I felt a mix of old and young simultaneously.

I fondly remember how my dad used to leave me birthday cards when he had to work on my special day. Those little gestures meant the world to me, and they still do. Despite the ups and downs, I knew I was loved, and that was enough to make my birthday special.

I couldn't help but wonder what kind of surprise my dad had planned for me. It could be anything! Maybe an outing, since he knows how much I love the outdoors. Or perhaps a homemade meal or a special gift. My mind raced with possibilities.

But then, a small part of me worried. What if the surprise was him introducing me to a new girlfriend? While I wanted my dad to be happy, I couldn't help but fear the idea of a stepmother who might be lovely in front of him but a devil in disguise when he wasn't around. I knew I was overreacting, letting my imagination run wild with negative thoughts about step-parents.

Pushing those worries aside, I got ready for the day. Since my mom was on strike two, I drove her to work before heading to Squad 769 firehouse. I didn't announce that it was my birthday. I preferred to keep it low-key, letting the warmth of my family's messages carry me through the day.

---

At the firehouse

I didn’t mention that it was my birthday because, to me, it wasn’t necessary. Not everyone cares about birthdays, and some people see them as just another day. To me I really never had a good birthday so I just view all birthdays as another day.

We inspected our manual and automatic tools, and I performed maintenance on our rig to ensure it was ready for any future calls. I kept my birthday to myself because, in Little Bird, it's socially acceptable for adults to celebrate their birthdays quietly. It's not about making a big deal out of it or expecting everyone to know and acknowledge it.

I did wonder why our apparatus fit from the 60s, but I didn't question it too much. Different places have different equipment based on their needs. Here in Empire, the inner city areas are narrow and compact, so our fire apparatus is designed to navigate those tight spaces. Tiller ladders are common here because they can fit where regular ladder trucks can't and carry more equipment.

Thinking about the town of Twin Rivers over in Blister Canyon, it's interesting how the town is split between two countries due to an old war. The north side belongs to Little Bird, and the south side to Blister Canyon, with a river dividing them. It's odd how such a small town has two firehouses but only one police station and one clinic, with the police precinct on the Blister Canyon side and the clinic on the Little Bird side.

I’m not going to overthink it. Today is just another day, and I'll go on with my duties as usual.

____________________

May 18th, in the evening.

At a nice restaurant.

I went over to the booth where my dad was at.

“Hey dad,” I said.

My dad replied, “Hey there Macaroni. Happy belated 26th birthday.”

“Thanks dad,” I said, “Nice restaurant you chose here.”

Soon a woman joined the booth.

“Oh Macaroni this is my girlfriend,” my dad said.

I looked at her in which she looks like she’s 30 which would make her four years older than me but fourteen years younger than my father. I wanted to say what my gut was saying but I didn’t because I don’t want to accuse her of something even though the Watersons tell each other to follow our gut because of our gut having our natural instinct to follow its institution.

“Oh you’re Mackenzie,” the woman said. “I’m Martha. Nice to finally meet you. Your dad talked all about you.”

I was about to say that she ain’t Martha Steward in which I only know that name because of the movie “The Bride of Chucky” that I saw with a friend and his family in theaters.

My gut was saying that she was with my dad for money or an inheritance. If my dad had one or not but while us Waterson’s are instructed to trust our guts we also don’t blab our mouths to ruin relationships because of a clingy family member. If something did happen I would get evidence and show my dad.

But I greeted her with a warm smile on my face but my eyes said, “If you harm my dad or are with him for his money I will fucking end you” glare. Some might call me clingy to my dad but those who call me clingy don’t know my background and how since my dad isn’t with my mom so he could save for his retirement or something.

“So your father tells me you’re a firefighter?” Martha asked.

My facial expression wanted to change with the expression saying “No shit Sherlock.”

I replied, “Yup. When the door comes down that’s my domain, and inside those four walls that’s my world, when the door goes up I go out there to serve the public and I get out there and put my lock and my butt on the line to serve the public. The mission comes first. Will I get hurt? Maybe. Will I die? Maybe. The department prepared me for that knowing that it’s a dangerous world. I can laugh and I can joke and I can pet the Dalmation but when I go to work I have to keep my shit together. I don’t have an active imagination because in the academy they drilled into us that if you have an active imagination you might as well quit now because we’re going to see things that you Martha won’t never see and if we have an active imagination and if we thought about how we could die or get hurt then we would have to put in retirement papers and resign.”

My birthday dinner was fine but when I ordered a well done steak she tried to say I should’ve gotten a salad or something a lot healthier for my birthday dinner. I more or less told her to fuck off because how she said it the tone was her saying that I was fat or chubby. Even though I’m 210 pounds, I want to say that at least half of my weight comes from my hourglass figurine and some muscles where I’m not muscular nor skinny but in between leaning towards skinny.

After the dinner my dad gave me a gift in which it was a necklace with an emerald gem on it. Emeralds are the birthstone of May. But when my dad left to go to use the bathroom Martha tried to snatch my emerald necklace but I stopped her, grabbing her wrist and slightly squeezing it.

I told her not to even think about it. But soon my dad came back but Martha tried to play victim but the moment my dad was about to say something I told him how Martha tried to take it without warning. But if he wants to believe Martha then I would just leave my share of the bill and take my present and go home. But my dad was on the fence so he was in the middle not taking sides.

When it came to dessert I got a slice of strawberry cake. But when Martha said something I told her to stop complaining and she can get her own dessert because I’m not sharing my slice of cake with her. But I said it in a way that didn’t make me sound like an entitled brat but in a way that she’s allowed to get what she wants.

“So Mackenzie when you plan on getting married?” Martha asked.

I had no idea how to respond to that but to me her tone was like she wanted to be like a mother who wants their only child to be married off.

“Well my girlfriend and I aren’t planning on getting married anytime soon,” I began.

Martha replied, “Your girlfriend? That won’t do. We need to find you a man to be with so you can have several healthy babies down the road.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I said.

Martha replied, “Excuse me?”

“I like having a girlfriend. I don't need a man to be successful and I’m not having kids until I’m ready,” I said standing my ground.

Martha replied, “Well your biological clock is ticking down.”

I was offended by Martha’s sentence about my biology and I was about to tear into her but I let it slide because of us being inside of a public building. But I was offended by a woman who’s four years older than me telling me how I’m getting older that when I do get older it would be harder for me to have children. But I made up my mind where if I don’t have children then I won’t and if I do then I will. But my dad supports me on my decision of not wanting to have children until I’m either ready or just don’t want to have kids.

After dinner we went our separate ways even though Martha tried to convince me to let her see my apartment but I came up with a fib and said how my apartment is a little bit sloppy even though I keep my apartment spotless.

________________________________

May 20th.

As I stepped into my apartment, I was greeted by an unexpected sight. Two boys, who looked like they were either in their late high school years or early college, were standing in my living room.

“Who the heck are you two?” I demanded, my voice a mix of confusion and irritation.

The one with long curly hair spoke up first. “We’re your step brothers. Our mom and your dad said it’s fine for us to come here. Some woman who was leaving this place just said we could come in.”

I blinked, trying to process what he was saying. Stepbrothers? I quickly pulled out my phone and checked for any messages, missed calls, or emails from my dad or his girlfriend. Nothing. Not a single notification.

I had no idea that my dad’s new girlfriend had kids, let alone that they were now apparently my stepbrothers. And why were they acting like my dad and his girlfriend were married? They weren’t even engaged as far as I knew.

“Wait a minute,” I said, holding up my hand. “You’re saying your mom and my dad are married? Because last I checked, they were just dating.”

The boys exchanged a glance, looking just as confused as I felt. “Well, they told us to come here,” the curly-haired one insisted. “Maybe there’s been a misunderstanding?”

I sighed, rubbing my temples. This was not how I envisioned my morning going. “Alright, let’s figure this out. But first, you two need to explain everything from the beginning.”

The more uniformly and neatly dressed boy stepped forward, his expression earnest. “Our mom really wanted us to spend a day or two with you so we could get to know our stepsister,” he explained. “She thought it would be a good idea for us to bond and get to know each other better.”

I sighed, feeling a mix of exhaustion and frustration. “I get that, but it would’ve been nice to get a heads-up. I’ve been on shift for the past 24 hours, and the last thing I want to do is play host to two strangers I just met.”

The boys exchanged a glance, looking a bit sheepish. “We’re really sorry,” the neatly dressed one said. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We just thought it was what our mom and your dad wanted.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. “Alright, let’s figure this out. But first, you two need to explain everything from the beginning.”

The curly-haired boy nodded. “Our mom and your dad have been seeing each other for a while now, and they thought it was time for us to meet you. They didn’t want to wait any longer, so they sent us over here.”

I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Okay, I get it. But next time, a little communication would go a long way.”

The boys nodded in agreement. “We’ll make sure to let them know,” the neatly dressed one said. “We really didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

I sighed again, feeling a bit of the tension leave my shoulders. “Alright, let’s start over. I’m Mackenzie, but you can call me Macaroni. What are your names?”

The boys smiled, looking relieved. “I’m Jake,” the curly-haired one said.

“And I’m Alex,” the neatly dressed one added.

“Nice to meet you, Jake and Alex,” I said, managing a small smile. “Let’s see if we can make the best of this situation.”

“Do you have any video games?” asked Jake.

I replied, “Nope. You’re now in a country where video games date back to arcade games. No PlayStations, no Xboxes, no modern gaming consoles here. If you want to play games, I suggest you head to the Eastside Arcade. It’s more or less a fancy shopping mall with more glass than metal, but they have a game room with arcade games.”

Jake seemed to dislike that idea. “Well, that sucks.”

Alex, trying to lighten the mood, chimed in, “Hey, it could be fun! I’ve never really played arcade games before. It might be a cool experience.”

I nodded, appreciating Alex’s attempt to make the best of the situation. “Yeah, it’s actually pretty nostalgic. Plus, it’s a good way to unwind after a long day.”

Jake shrugged, still looking a bit disappointed. “I guess it could be interesting. Do you want to come with us, Macaroni?”

I considered it for a moment. After a 24-hour shift, I was exhausted, but maybe a little outing could help me relax. “Sure, why not? Let’s go check it out. But first, let me grab a quick shower and change into something more comfortable.”

The boys nodded, looking a bit more enthusiastic. “Sounds good,” Alex said. “We’ll wait here.”

As I headed to my room, I couldn’t help but smile a little. Maybe this unexpected visit wouldn’t be so bad after all. It might even be the start of a new adventure.

I took a quick shower, making sure to lock the door behind me. After drying off, I got dressed and tossed my dirty clothes into the laundry basket. Feeling a bit more refreshed, I was ready to take on the unexpected adventure with Jake and Alex.

We headed to the Eastside Arcade, just as I had described it to them. The building was an impressive structure of glass and reinforced steel, gleaming under the city lights. As we walked in, the sounds of arcade games and chatter filled the air.

Alex seemed intrigued by the place and decided to take a leisurely stroll around, taking in the sights and sounds. Jake, on the other hand, made a beeline straight to the gaming zone, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the classic arcade machines.

“Alright, you two,” I said with a smile. “Have fun and try not to get into too much trouble. I’ll be around if you need me.”

Jake was already engrossed in a game, barely acknowledging my words. Alex gave me a nod and continued his exploration of the arcade.

I found a quiet corner to sit and relax, watching the boys as they immersed themselves in the arcade experience. Maybe this unexpected visit wouldn’t be so bad after all. It might even be the start of a new adventure and a chance to bond with my newfound step brothers.

Alex was casually window shopping, peering through the displays of various stores. It was clear he was more interested in browsing than gaming.

I couldn’t help but think about how misleading the name "arcade" was. It was more like a glorified shopping mall, but without calling it that. The history of this place was quite dramatic. Back in 2000, the original Eastside Mall had to be torn down after a devastating fire. The fire department had to use explosives to make the mall cave in on itself, a tactic they sometimes use to fight oil well fires by imploding the well to cap it. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

The stories about the fire were intense. There was no determined point of origin, and my cousin Dave had some wild tales about it. He said the underground parking lot was an inferno. No matter what they tried—water, foam, dry powder, wet chemical, ABC dry chemical, Purple-K, sodium bicarbonate, carbon dioxide, Halon, vaporizing liquid fire extinguishers—nothing could put out the flames. It was so hot that it felt like trying to blow out a forest fire as if it was a birthday candle. Halon has been banned by the country of Little Bird since September 18th, 1994 two months after Canada and they use it when it’s except for essential uses or for use as analytical standards but it’s very rare for Little Bird to use it after it was banned for Ozone depletion.

As I watched Alex walking around, window shopping, and Jake engrossed in the arcade games, I couldn’t help but wonder if they knew the history of this place. It was a reminder of how unpredictable life could be, and how sometimes, you just had to roll with the punches.

After a couple of hours, I gathered Jake and Alex, and we headed back to my apartment. Despite my exhaustion, I decided to make them some lunch. It was the least I could do to make them feel welcome.

In the kitchen, I whipped up some sandwiches and a simple salad. As we sat down to eat, I could see that the boys were starting to relax a bit more.

“So, what do you guys think of the arcade?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

Jake shrugged, “It was alright. Different from what I’m used to, but not bad.”

Alex nodded, “Yeah, it was interesting. I liked seeing all the different stores too.”

I smiled, glad that they were starting to open up. “Well, I’m glad you guys had a good time. Maybe next time we can explore more of the city together.”

The boys exchanged a glance and then smiled back at me. “That sounds like a plan,” Jake said.

As we continued to chat over lunch, I realized that maybe this unexpected visit wasn’t so bad after all. It was a chance to get to know my new step brothers and maybe even start building a new family dynamic.

Soon, Jake started to talk to me in a more demanding tone. He asked me to get him something, but I wasn’t intimidated. “You’ve got two legs that aren’t broken,” I replied calmly. “You can get up and get whatever you want yourself.”

A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Martha, my dad’s girlfriend. She came at me over the phone, clearly upset. But I wasn’t about to back down. I retorted, striking back with both barrels. “You’re a bad mother for dropping your kids off at my apartment without my consent,” I told her. “Next time, I’ll be calling the cops both here in the city of Empire and back in Alabama for child abandonment. I could’ve been working today, or I could’ve left before they even arrived and wouldn’t be back until the following morning or even another week.”

Alex, who had been polite throughout, spoke up. “I know what our mom did was messed up,” he said. “She should have asked you if it was okay for us to show up, especially considering your work schedule.”

I appreciated Alex’s understanding. “Thanks, Alex,” I said. “I just need a bit of consideration, that’s all.”

Jake, looking a bit chastened, mumbled an apology. “Sorry, Macaroni. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

I sighed, feeling a bit of the tension leave my shoulders. “It’s alright. Let’s just try to make the best of this situation. I go back to work tomorrow, so let’s enjoy the time we have. And Jake if you talk to me in a demanding or empowering tone again then I’ll bitch slap you by back-handing you across the face. This is my apartment not yours.”

As we settled back into a more relaxed atmosphere, I couldn’t help but feel a bit hopeful. Maybe, despite the rocky start, we could find a way to get along and build some kind of family bond.

____________________________

A Week Later

Killen, Alabama.

I decided to surprise my father with a visit to my childhood home. The place where I grew up, filled with memories of laughter and love. But as I stepped through the familiar front door, I felt a strange unease.

I wandered through the house, taking in the changes. It was then that I saw her—my father's new wife. My heart sank. He had married her without even telling me. She was now my stepmother.

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. I needed to talk to my father. I found him in the living room, and we began a serious conversation about his new wife. I expressed my concerns, pointing out that nearly every photograph in the house featured her. It felt like she was trying to erase our family's history, replacing it with her own.

"She's a narcissist, Dad," I said, looking him straight in the eye, hoping he would see the truth in my words. But he dismissed my concerns, accusing me of lying.

I felt a wave of hurt and frustration wash over me. "You have to choose, Dad," I said, my voice trembling. "You can either believe in your only child who loves you and wants the best for you, or you can choose your new family and risk losing me forever."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and resolve. "I'm sorry, Macaroni, but I chose my wife."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead. Without saying another word, I walked out of the house. As I closed the door behind me, I pulled out my phone and blocked his number.

I got into my rental car, my hands shaking. I saw my father come out, trying to chase after me, but I couldn't bear to hear what he had to say. I put the car in reverse, backed out of the driveway, and drove away.

I found a motel for the night, my heart heavy with sorrow where I cried myself asleep. The next morning, I used my round trip ticket on the first flight back to Empire, leaving behind the place that was once my home, now filled with nothing but heartbreak.

_______________________

Lusty's Apartment

I knocked on the door, my heart heavy with the weight of the previous night's events.

"Hey Mac..." Lusty began, her voice trailing off as she saw the look on my face.

I tried to hold back my tears. "Hey Lusty, is it okay if I come in? I don't want to deal with my mother right now."

Without hesitation, Lusty stepped aside and let me in. Her apartment felt like a sanctuary, a place where I could finally let my guard down.

"You okay?" Lusty asked, her eyes filled with concern.

I struggled to find the words. How could I even begin to explain what had happened? The betrayal, the heartbreak—it was all too much.

"As a mother, I know when someone is upset," Lusty said gently, her voice soothing.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I began to recount the events of the previous night, my voice trembling as I spoke. Lusty's expression shifted from concern to horror as she listened, appalled by what I had been through.

She wrapped her arms around me, offering the comfort and support I so desperately needed. At that moment, I knew I wasn't alone.

After I finished recounting the whole story, Lusty looked at me with a mix of empathy and determination. She took a deep breath and said, "Mac, I can't believe what you've been through. It's heartbreaking and unfair. But you did the right thing by standing up for yourself. You deserve to be treated with respect and love."

She paused for a moment, then continued, "You know, sometimes people make choices that hurt us deeply, but it doesn't mean we have to carry that pain alone. I'm here for you, always. We'll get through this together."

Lusty's words were like a balm to my wounded heart. She pulled me into a tight hug, and for the first time since the confrontation with my father, I felt a glimmer of hope.

I even told her how my dad had promised that if he ever remarried, he would invite me, text me the invitation, and even send an overnight letter. But Lusty was there for me, reassuring me that what my dad did was inexcusable. She reminded me that the residents of Eastside, almost all fifty-nine thousand of them, considered her family.

"At least it ain't Judgement Day," I said, trying to lighten the mood and make myself feel better.

Lusty looked puzzled. "Judgement Day?" she asked, clearly not understanding the reference. Lusty wasn't religious, so it made sense.

"Do you remember something in the Bible about the last days, when the dead would rise from the grave?" I asked.

Lusty shook her head no.

"Revelations 6:12," I began, quoting from memory. "'And I looked as he opened the sixth seal, and behold, there was a great earthquake. And the sun became as black as sackcloth, and the moon became as blood. And the seas boiled and the skies fell. Judgement Day.' Every ancient and modern religion has its own myth about the end of the world. And to me, I'd rather be unintentionally stepped on by the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man than have my dad choose his new family over his only daughter."

Lusty chuckled, her laughter a small comfort. "Don't know what a 112.5-foot-tall marshmallow mascot from a 1984 movie has anything to do with it," she said, shaking her head with a smile.

Her lighthearted response made me smile, even if just a little. It was a reminder that despite the pain, there were still moments of levity and connection to be found. With Lusty by my side, I knew I could face whatever came next.

"If your extended family found out about your father's choice?" Lusty asked, her curiosity piqued.

I sighed, "While they won't have any say in his decision, they'll definitely give him a piece of their mind. It'll be like the real wrath of God kind of stuff."

"Like fire and brimstone raining down from the sky, rivers and seas boiling, forty years of darkness, earthquakes, volcanoes, the dead rising from the graves?" Lusty said with a smirk. "You mutter in your sleep, you know."

I couldn't help but chuckle at her dramatic description. "Lusty, I have extended family members who are step-parents themselves, and they always put their biological children first. My family back in America is going to give my dad an earful."

Lusty nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Well, it sounds like your dad is in for a tough time. But remember, you have people who care about you and will stand by you no matter what."

Lusty then shifted the topic to our nicknames, trying to lighten the mood.

Besides "Lusty," I knew her other nicknames: "Ghetto Firefighter" and "Family Firefighter." The first one, "Ghetto Firefighter," came from her being comfortable in any situation, no matter how tough. Growing up in a part of the city with a high fire rate played a major part in that. The second nickname, "Family Firefighter," was because she was so approachable by kids, making them open up and share things they normally wouldn't.

"Have you got your nickname yet?" Lusty asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Yeah, it's 'Frost,'" I replied with a small smile. "Because I have the tendency to stay frosty while on the job."

I went outside and looked down onto the street below. To my surprise, I saw an armored car crash into a fire hydrant. As I glanced across the city skyline, I noticed someone on a glider crash into some scaffolding. I couldn't help but chuckle and say, "Well, there's something you don't see every day."

Lusty joined me, shaking her head with a smile. "This city never ceases to amaze me," she said, her laughter a comforting sound amidst the chaos.

“At least your dad ain’t in Eastside,” Lusty said.

I asked, “Why not?”

“Last person who chose their new family over their biological children under the age of 18 and kicked their biological kids out to have their new wife and step-kids move in well Eastside selected a few people for a jury. I overheard it and all of them said and I quote ‘We don’t need to deliberate. Hang that motherfucker now. I got the rope right here’ and well the people in Eastside well if a child is 17 and a day before turning 18 well said parent has to raise them as a child until they’re adults legally. What that guy did was child abandonment.”

I changed the subject, but nothing came to mind, so we just stood there in silence, enjoying the nice spring breeze.

Lusty broke the silence, "That’s the one thing about being in the Fire Department—you have to miss a lot of important things like birthdays."

There was another pause, and I had no idea what she would say next.

"Have you checked your phone for any messages?" Lusty asked, breaking the silence.

"Nope, I kept it off since last night. Never turned it back on. But I blocked my dad and his wife," I replied, feeling a mix of relief and sadness.

"Have you thought about your other family back in America trying to get ahold of you?" Lusty asked, her concern evident.

"Yeah, but I know that when my dad tells them why I'm not answering and how my phone is off, they'll understand. When he explains what happened, they'll automatically jump ship and defend me," I said, feeling a bit more reassured.

Her words were comforting, and I felt a sense of gratitude for having someone like Lusty in my life. We stood there for a while longer, letting the spring breeze wash over us, finding solace in each other's presence.

I then decided to turn on my phone. After waiting for a while, it finally came back on, and my notifications went off like fireworks. I had 232 missed calls and 345 text messages from family members back in the United States. The older messages, received between 4-7 AM Central Pacific Time, were filled with worry and concern. The newer ones, received just an hour to a few minutes ago, were messages of support and disbelief at my father's decision to choose his new family over his own flesh and blood.

I felt a mix of emotions as I read through the messages. It was overwhelming, but also comforting to know that my family had my back. Lusty looked over my shoulder, reading some of the messages with me.

"See? You're not alone in this," she said softly, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just... a lot to take in."

"We'll get through this together," Lusty said, her voice filled with determination. "You have a whole army of family who love you and support you."

As I read through the messages, a whirlwind of emotions washed over her. The initial worry and concern from my family members tugged at my heartstrings, making me feel both guilty and loved. The more recent messages of support and disbelief at my father's actions brought a sense of validation and relief.

I felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of messages, but also deeply comforted knowing that my family stood by my side. The outpouring of love and support made me feel less alone in her pain and gave me the strength to face the difficult situation ahead.

With each message, My resolve grew stronger. I knew she had an army of people who cared for me and would support me no matter what. It was a bittersweet moment, filled with both heartache and hope, but I felt a glimmer of optimism knowing I wasn't facing this battle alone.

___________________________

Tuesday, the 1st of June.

As I was carefully placing the manual and automatic tools back onto Squad 769, I felt a familiar presence behind me. The firehouse, usually a place of camaraderie and purpose, suddenly felt heavy with unspoken words.

“Hey Macaroni,” my dad's voice broke the silence, a nickname that once brought a smile to my face.

But today, I couldn't bring myself to respond. I kept my back turned, my heart aching with a mix of anger and sadness. I decided to give him the cold shoulder, hoping he would understand the depth of my hurt. The tools clinked softly as I continued my task, each sound echoing the distance growing between us

“Hey Macaroni?” my dad asked, his voice tinged with concern. “Can’t you hear me?”

I continued to ignore him, my heart heavy with the weight of unspoken words. I had told him before how much I disliked Martha. She would never be my stepmother, yet she insisted on treating me like a child, despite being only four years older than me. I was 26, a grown woman, but Martha, at 30, refused to see me as anything other than a kid.

My dad had made his choice. He chose his wife and her children over me, his own daughter. He always preached about how “choices have consequences,” and now I was living the painful reality of his decision. The firehouse, once a place of solace, now felt like a battleground of emotions. Each tool I placed back onto Squad 769 was a reminder of the growing chasm between us.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

My dad then put his hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off, the touch feeling like a betrayal.

“What’s wrong, Macaroni?” he asked, his voice filled with confusion. “Why haven’t you answered your phone? Why did you block Martha and me?”

I muttered under my breath, “You should practice what you preach.”

“What was that?” he asked, leaning in closer.

I turned around, my eyes burning with unshed tears, and replied in a confrontational tone, “You should practice what you preach! You always say that family is there for each other no matter what, not brush them off when one tells you something! I told you how Martha was treating me like a child, but what did you do? You told me to ignore it! So last week, I gave you an ultimatum: choose me or Martha and her kids. And you chose them!”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of my pain and disappointment. The firehouse, once a place of refuge, now felt like a battlefield where my heart was the casualty.

Soon the fire bell went off with the report of a fire in an abandoned warehouse with Squad 769 going to be the first due Engine Company because firehouses 14, 15 and 71 are busy with a car fire, malfunctioning automatic fire alarm and someone stuck on top of a crane.

“Wait Macaroni,” my dad said.

I cut him off as I was putting my turnout jacket on, “This could be my final run.”

I then got onto Squad 769 and we were out but I wasn't interested in what my dad had to say before we rolled out of the door. He always preached “Choices have consequences” and he chose to alienate his daughter and he has to live with that consequence.

_______

At the abandoned warehouse, I grabbed the 4-inch supply hose and sprinted towards the hydrant. Just as I reached out to twist off the cap, it clattered to the ground.

"Squad 769-7 to Squad 769, the hydrant has been vandalized. I'm heading to the next one," I radioed in, my voice steady despite the frustration bubbling inside. Without missing a beat, I dashed off to the nearest hydrant, hoping this one would be intact.

Every second counted, and I wasn't about to let a sabotaged hydrant slow us down.

As I sprinted to the next hydrant, my radio crackled with urgency, "Where's the water, Macaroni?" I couldn't give a direct answer yet, but I was determined to get it flowing.

I reached the hydrant, unscrewed the cap, and quickly hooked up the supply hose. Double-checking the connection, I grabbed the hydrant wrench and turned it with all my might. Water surged through the hose, and I felt a wave of relief.

"Squad 769-7 to Squad 769, we've got a water source," I radioed back, my voice steady. Every second counted, and now we were back in the game.

As I was running back to rejoin my company, a massive explosion soon knocked me off my feet and flat onto my back.

__________

(Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson Father POV)

While I stayed behind in my daughter Mackenzie's firehouse, I hoped to talk to her when she got back. I wanted to explain my decision and hoped she would stop acting like a moody, bratty teenager. I thought she'd be happy about my choice, but instead, she's acting like a rebellious 26-year-old.

After several minutes, I overheard the fire department dispatcher calling for the company my daughter is in. There was no response. My heart sank. Then, another voice came over the dispatch system, announcing that Engine 18, Ladder Co 18, and the 18th Battalion were two and a half minutes away.

It felt like a game of roulette, with only a one in seven chance that my daughter would be safe and sound. The waiting was agonizing, and all I could do was hope and pray that she'd come back unharmed.

It didn't help that the last thing Macaroni said to me was, "This could be my last one." It sounded so cryptic, like she had made peace with the dangers of firefighting, accepting the possibility of getting hurt or even killed.

She's part of a specialized unit with highly trained firefighters who respond to emergencies requiring expertise or specialized tools not found on a standard Fire Engine or Fire Truck. They handle situations that need advanced equipment, like a Miniature Rescue Squad. This means Macaroni and her team are often called to the most dangerous emergencies, including fires in abandoned buildings. Their advanced tools can identify the weakest parts of a structure, predict fire spread, and assess what's most at risk of catching fire.

Knowing this, I couldn't help but worry. Every call she goes on is a high-stakes situation, and I hope she returns safe every time.

Those two and a half minutes felt like an eternity, each second dragging on slower than a sloth. My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for any news.

When the time finally passed, the dispatcher began listing off all the nearest firehouses to respond to the scene. The 18th Battalion had struck a seventh alarm, signaling a major emergency. They even called for the Coroner and Advanced Life Support (ALS) for medical transport.

The gravity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. My mind raced with worry for Macaroni, hoping she was safe amidst the chaos. All I could do was wait and pray for her safe return.

As I waited, I kept listening to the radio chatter. A firefighter reported that whatever happened had knocked down some buildings around the abandoned warehouse. They needed additional equipment, and dispatch quickly replied that Heavy Rescue was already on its way.

Macaroni and her girlfriend Claire had told me that any major fire, especially one that's a third alarm or greater, automatically gets a Rescue Squad dispatched. I hoped that if anyone needed medical transport, it wouldn't be my daughter. But there was a nagging voice in the back of my head, reminding me that there was a one in seven chance it could be Macaroni who needed to go to the hospital. Worse, there was a six out of seven chance she might not make it at all.

I desperately wanted to clear the air with her. The last thing I wanted was for her to die hating me for my decision last week. I didn't want people to remember me as the father who alienated his daughter, who died without hearing my side of the story. My family hated my decision to choose my new wife and my step-sons over my own daughter. Even my own father was against me. He had worked a lot and was an alcoholic, but at least he managed to rebuild trust with me before I grew up. I hoped I could do the same with Macaroni before it was too late.

A part of my mind kept whispering that if Macaroni died without us making amends, my entire family would openly blame me. At every holiday gathering, they'd make me the black sheep, reminding me of my choice to prioritize my new wife and stepchildren over my own daughter. The regret would be unbearable.

After some time, I overheard dispatch notifying the closest hospital about an unconscious firefighter with bleeding from their ears. The use of "they" instead of "he" or "she" only intensified my worry.

I decided to go to the hospital and wait. I arrived just seconds before the ambulance. When the EMT and Paramedic rolled a firefighter into the ER, my heart sank—it was Macaroni. I went to the waiting room, sat down, and started to pray for her health. I hoped she would make a full recovery. I didn't want to lose her, not just to avoid the blame for alienating her, but because I genuinely wanted to be there for her and apologize.

_____________________

Several days later, I found myself in the hospital waiting room, a styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on the table next to me. I glanced over at my cousin David, but his glare was so intense it felt like it could throw daggers. I quickly looked away.

I wanted to make small talk with Dave, but he looked like he had just fought a fire himself, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.

After a few moments of silence, I tried to break the ice. "Do you think Claire will come here?" I asked.

Dave's reply was filled with hate and disdain. "She's in the hospital cafeteria, getting her children something to eat. She doesn't want them to see Macaroni in the state she's in."

The tension in the room was palpable, and I could feel the weight of my family's disapproval bearing down on me. All I could do was hope for Macaroni's recovery and a chance to make things right.

Soon, Martha and her two sons arrived, but Dave scoffed in disgust.

“What’s your problem?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Dave's reply was sharp and filled with frustration. “Macaroni hates her and her son Jake. And here you are, bringing your new wife and her kids to the hospital, knowing full well that Macaroni can't stand them. Can you really not see why she blocked you and has been giving you the cold shoulder and the silent treatment?”

I wanted to argue, to defend my actions, but I kept quiet. Dave's words stung, and I knew there was truth in them. He got up in disgust and returned to visit Macaroni, leaving me to sit with my thoughts and the heavy weight of regret. All I could do was hope for a chance to make things right with my daughter.

Martha told me that it’s not my fault and that whatever problem Macaroni and Dave had, even though she knew Dave and just called him “That guy” but to me my daughter and Dave are family. I had no idea what to do where I wanted to be with my new family and be with my daughter at the same time but I was conflicted between my daughter and my wife with her kids.

It wasn't long before Mitchell arrived with a woman by his side.

“Is someone back there with her?” Mitchell asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“Yeah, Dave is,” I replied, hoping to ease his mind.

Mitchell seemed somewhat relieved. “Alright, all of us don’t need to be back there,” he said.

Curiosity got the better of me. “Is that your wife, Mitchell?” I asked.

Martha chimed in, “Do you two have any children?”

Mitchell's response was curt. “CO. Lieutenant Maud.”

Lieutenant Luna, the woman with Mitchell, shot Martha a glare that clearly said, “We can take this outside.” The tension in the room was palpable, and I could feel the weight of everyone's emotions bearing down on us. All I could do was hope for Macaroni's recovery and a chance to mend the fractured relationships around me.

Soon, Lusty arrived with her kids, having kept them out of school under the guise of an important doctor's visit.

I turned to Mitchell, trying to offer some comfort. "Mitchell, I want to give my condolences for your father's passing a couple of months ago."

"Thanks," Mitchell replied, his voice the same.

Curiosity got the better of me again. "So, what's it like being the son of the President?" I asked.

Martha interjected with a playful tone, "I bet the ladies lined up for miles wanting to be with you."

Mitchell sighed, "Being the son of the President means you have to figure out who your true friends are and who just wants to be close because of my father's position. I had so-called friends in school who thought they could get handouts if I asked my dad. When I didn't want to take advantage of my dad's position, their true colors showed."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Mitchell's words hanging in the air. It was a reminder of the complexities and challenges that come with being in the public eye, and how important it is to have genuine connections.

Soon Dave came back and so I decided to go back and visit Macaroni.

_______________

In Macaroni’s hospital room, I stood by the door, my heart heavy as I watched my daughter lying in the hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, and the steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room.

I had hoped it wouldn't be Macaroni, but I couldn't lie to myself any longer. My actions had driven her away, making her feel unappreciated and failing to empathize with her feelings.

I pulled a chair over and sat down beside her, gently holding her hand. I didn't know what to say, but I knew I had to speak from my heart.

"I love you, Mackenzie," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Nothing in this world will stop me from loving you. Nothing in this world will separate us."

I squeezed her hand, feeling the weight of my regret and the hope for her recovery. It was heartbreaking to see her like this, hooked up to machines to keep her alive. All I could do was pray for her to wake up and give me a chance to make things right.

A doctor came in and asked who I was. I told him I was Mackenzie's father and asked if I could speak to a hospital priest. He promised to get one of my religious background.

While waiting for the priest, I knew I couldn't rely solely on prayer to get my daughter through this. I'm not one of those religious fanatics who prays over every little thing and ignores modern medicine. I believe in the power of both faith and science.

When Macaroni wakes up, I know a simple heartfelt apology won't be enough. I need to apologize in a way that shows I truly mean it, without it sounding forced or insincere. I want her to feel my genuine regret and love, and to understand that I'm committed to making things right between us.

When the doctor returned, I asked when Mackenzie would wake up. The doctor explained that they had to put her in a medically induced coma. They would keep her like that for a week, monitoring for signs of improvement or deterioration. If they saw signs of improvement, they would bring her out of the coma.

I then met with the hospital priest, and we prayed together in silence for my daughter's recovery.

"Father, do you think this is part of God's plan to make people see the error of their ways?" I asked, my voice filled with uncertainty.

The priest replied, "Sometimes the Good Lord puts those closest to us through very tough times, even on death's door, to make others see what they did wrong and to make us see what we did wrong."

"So, it's like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" I asked, drawing a parallel. "Because the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come reveals to Scrooge the future consequences of his past and present actions: his lack of sympathy for the poor, his ill-treatment of his clerk Bob Cratchit, and that the Cratchit family's poor health will result in the death of their disabled young son, Tiny Tim."

The priest nodded, "If you want to use that analogy, then you can."

His words gave me a lot to think about. I realized that this might be my chance to reflect on my actions and make amends with Mackenzie. I just hoped it wasn't too late.

"The last thing my daughter said to me was, 'This could be my last call.' That's what she said before her company went to the fire," I confided to the priest, my voice heavy with regret.

The priest replied gently, "It's not my place to say, but perhaps the Good Lord has put your daughter here to make those who hurt her see the error of their ways and feel the weight of their actions."

I didn't tell the priest that it was me who had driven her away, making her feel unwanted and disregarded. I had failed to value her opinions, and now I had to face the reality of her lying in a hospital bed, in a vegetative state, on life support.

Soon, a nurse came and took the priest away to attend to another family. Moments later, Martha arrived.

"Hey, have you thought about it?" Martha asked, her voice filled with concern.

"Not a chance in Hell am I going to have the doctor pull the plug on my only child!" I replied, my voice firm and resolute. I couldn't bear the thought of losing Mackenzie permanently, and I was determined to do everything in my power to give her a chance to recover.

Martha tried to convince me that it would be easier to have the doctor take Macaroni off life support, to put her out of her misery. But I stood my ground, resolute in my decision. As Martha began to argue further, I reminded her that neither she nor Macaroni’s birth mother had any say in this matter. Macaroni’s birth mom had waived her parental rights, and Martha, who was old enough to be Macaroni’s sister, had only been in her life for two weeks, since the day after Macaroni’s birthday.

"Macaroni is 26 and an adult," I said firmly. "You can't claim it's your wish as a parent when you weren't part of her life until recently."

Martha fell silent, and I could see the frustration in her eyes. But I knew I had to stand by my daughter, to give her every chance to recover. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her, especially without making things right between us.

______________________

A couple of weeks later, the doctor decided to take Macaroni out of her medically induced coma. The heart monitor continued its steady beep, a small comfort amidst the uncertainty.

I stayed by Macaroni’s side, refusing to leave until visiting hours were over. One moment her eyes were closed, and then, slowly, she began to open them.

“Oh Mackenzie, you’re awake!” I exclaimed, my voice filled with joy and relief. “I’m so happy! I'm so sorry for my decision. Every second for the past seventeen days, I thought you were on Death’s door!”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I held her close, grateful for this second chance to make things right.

Seeing Mackenzie awake, I felt a rush of emotions. I knew this was his chance to make things right.

"Mackenzie, I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you awake," I said, voice trembling with emotion. "I know I've made mistakes, and I deeply regret the decisions that hurt you. I want you to know that I love you more than anything in this world. I'm here for you, and I'm committed to making things right between us. Please, give me a chance to show you how much you mean to me."

I squeezed her hand gently, hoping she could feel the sincerity in my words. This was the beginning of a long journey to rebuild their relationship, and I was determined to make every moment count.

Macaroni blinked a few times, trying to focus on her father's face. Her voice was weak, but she managed to speak.

"Dad... I heard you," she said softly. "I know you were here... and I know you care. It's just... it's been hard. I felt so alone and unimportant."

She paused, taking a shaky breath. "But seeing you here, hearing you say those things... It means a lot. I want to believe you, and I want us to fix things. But it's going to take time."

She squeezed his hand gently, a small but significant gesture. "Let's take it one step at a time, okay?"

"Okay, Macaroni," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Me, your step-brothers, and Martha will be here to help you readjust to walking and getting back on your feet."

Macaroni's eyes narrowed slightly. "Leave Martha and her devil son out of it," she replied firmly.

I nodded, understanding her feelings. "Whatever you say, Macaroni. I'll be over the moon to help you walk and readjust after being in a medically induced coma for the past seventeen days, fourteen hours, and fifty-four minutes."

I squeezed her hand gently, feeling a mix of relief and determination. This was the start of a long journey, but I was ready to be there for her every step of the way.

Soon, Dave came back and hugged me tightly. I could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on both of us.

“What happened?” Macaroni asked, her voice weak but filled with concern.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “You’re in the hospital,” I replied gently.

“And the company I'm in?” she asked, her eyes searching mine for answers.

Dave and I exchanged a pained look, unsure of how to break the news. Finally, Dave spoke up, his voice heavy with sorrow. “They’re KIA.”

Macaroni's face paled. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dave explained, “The abandoned building you all responded to had enough explosives to equal 12,000 tons of TNT. The building contained 80% of the blast, but the remaining 20% was enough to knock you off your feet and kill the other six instantly. You were far enough away to survive, but close enough to be thrown by the blast wave.”

Macaroni's eyes filled with tears, and I could see the pain and loss etched on her face. I squeezed her hand, trying to offer some comfort. “We’re here for you, Macaroni. We’ll get through this together.”

She nodded slowly, her determination shining through the grief. “I want to honor their memory. I want to get better and make sure their sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

“We’ll help you every step of the way,” I assured her, my voice filled with resolve. “You’re not alone in this.”

Dave added, “We’ll make sure you have all the support you need, Macaroni. We’re here for you.”

I felt a renewed sense of purpose as we stood by her side. This was our chance to rebuild, to support Macaroni in her recovery, and to honor the memory of her fallen comrades. Together, we would face the challenges ahead and become stronger on the other side.

“What can the firefighter union do about that?” Macaroni asked, her voice tinged with frustration.

Dave sighed, “There’s not much the union can do directly. I can request a more thorough inspection to understand why 12,000 tons of dynamite were in an abandoned warehouse basement. Friends or family of the victims can file wrongful death lawsuits or sue the city for allowing abandoned buildings to remain instead of repurposing them into something useful, like apartments for dockworkers or public housing.”

“Can’t the firefighter union push for a more thorough investigation?” I asked, hoping for some form of justice.

Dave nodded, “Yes, but the Fire Department’s Fire Investigation team, the Police Department Bomb Squad, and the Arson Squad have already combed through the site thoroughly.”

“And the emergency response?” Macaroni asked, her eyes searching for answers.

Dave explained, “Every single apparatus and firefighter in the city was there, including all six volunteer companies. They pulled volunteers away from their regular jobs to respond.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I asked, concerned about the legality of the situation.

Dave shook his head, “What’s more important? A customer getting their pound of ham sliced thin at a butcher shop or someone’s life? That’s a rhetorical question.”

The room fell silent as we all absorbed the gravity of the situation. It was clear that the road to recovery and justice would be long and challenging, but we were determined to face it together.

"But I could ask for the County of Mountain or Federal resources to investigate," Dave said. "The Fire and Police Departments have limited resources, but the County of Mountain has state-level resources, and the federal government has federal resources."

"Which one is it? State or County?" I asked, a bit confused.

"Depends who you ask," Macaroni chimed in. "I call it the Commonwealth of Mountains."

Dave nodded. "I prefer to say County of Mountain, while my wife prefers Borough of Mountain. It really depends on who you ask. Even government buildings have random versions of County, Borough, State, or Commonwealth."

I sighed. "I think 'safety is the highest priority unless it costs too much money' should be every government and company's motto."

Dave interjected, explaining how cost-cutting measures on Little Bird are a felony. "Cutting costs has gotten a lot of people killed, which launches investigations. When cost-cutting is found to save a few bucks, and people die in fires or emergencies that could have been prevented, families can file wrongful death suits against the company and the government. Since the '90s, fire codes have gotten stricter, but sometimes companies still cut costs or use inferior materials."

He continued, "At least 98% of the materials used in high-rise and other building constructions are tested by the Little Bird Bureau of Fire Protection. They label products from A to F, with F being highly flammable and not suitable for use, and A being the most fireproof, able to withstand fire for over an hour and a half. B is similar to A but can't withstand fire for as long, and so on."

The room fell silent as we absorbed the information. It was clear that ensuring safety and accountability was a complex and ongoing battle. But knowing that there were measures in place to prevent such tragedies gave me a glimmer of hope.

"I have no idea what the 'Bureau of Fire Protection' is or what it does," I admitted, feeling a bit lost.

Macaroni gave a small smile. "Think of it like the NFPA, the National Fire Protection Association back in the U.S. It's similar to that."

Dave sighed. "I have a feeling they hate me."

Macaroni chuckled softly. "Yeah, because you wear obsolete turnout gear from 1950-1995. It has sentimental value to you because of your dad and uncle."

I couldn't help but smile at the exchange. Despite the gravity of the situation, it was comforting to see a bit of normalcy and humor return. It reminded me that even in the darkest times, there were still moments of light and connection.

Soon, Martha burst into the room, exclaiming, "Oh my baby!" as she rushed over. But before she could reach Macaroni, she tripped and fell flat on her back. Dave and I looked on in shock, realizing it was Macaroni who had knocked her down.

"I'm not your 'baby'," Macaroni said firmly. "She can't let it be and can't stand that I'm not letting her treat me like a child."

I could see the determination in Macaroni's eyes. She was asserting her independence, making it clear that she wanted to be treated as an adult. I knew this was a delicate moment, and I needed to support her in standing up for herself.

"Martha, please understand," I said gently, helping her up. "Macaroni needs to be treated with the respect and independence she deserves. Let's all work together to support her recovery."

Martha looked taken aback but nodded slowly, realizing the importance of respecting Macaroni's wishes. It was a small step, but an important one in rebuilding trust and understanding within our family.

“When can I go back to work?” Macaroni asked, her determination shining through.

I chuckled, “That’s the Waterson fighting spirit.”

“No, you’re not going back to work,” Martha interjected. “You need to recover until a doctor can sign off on you. You’ll need to go through rehab to make sure you can walk and are stable enough to return to work.”

Macaroni chuckled, as if Martha had told a joke.

“Actually, Macaroni, your step-mother is right,” Dave said. “Per department policy, you have to ensure you’re stable enough and complete a two-month rehab to make sure you can walk straight again.”

Martha added, “Yup, mother knows best.”

Macaroni’s expression hardened. “My mother is an addict and she doesn’t know best. And you’re never going to be my mother.”

I stayed silent, caught between wanting to support Macaroni without alienating Martha. It was a delicate balance, and I didn’t want to make things worse.

“I just want a cheeseburger,” Macaroni said, trying to lighten the mood.

Martha quickly interjected, “No unhealthy food! A strict diet of fruits and veggies for you!”

Macaroni’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not my mother, and I will eat what I want because I’m an adult, not a child.”

I took a deep breath, realizing that this was going to be a challenging journey. But I was determined to support Macaroni in her recovery and help mend the fractured relationships within our family.

As I sat on the hospital bed next to my daughter, her heart ached with a mix of relief and sorrow. “So, the company I'm in?” Macaroni asked.

Martha, trying to be comforting but missing the mark, replied, “Forget about work.”

Dave, chimed in, “Currently, A shift is occupied by floaters until more qualified ones can… How can I phrase it without sounding like they’re being replaced?”

Macaroni sighed, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I have no idea how I even feel,” Macaroni admitted, her voice cracking. “It kinda felt like something divine spared me, but I’m not even going to lie to myself.”

Martha, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, said insensitively, “It was something divine that saved you.”

The room fell silent as Dave, Macaroni and I turned to Martha, our eyes filled with disbelief and anger. How could she be so callous?

“You have no decency, do you?” Macaroni asked, voice trembling with disdain. “Two men from the company I'm in… their children will either grow up with a single parent or end up in the foster care system!”

I looked at my daughter, her eyes filled with tears, and I knew I had to stand by her. “What you said was uncalled for and mean,” I said to Martha, my voice firm. “You never stopped to think about the families of the guys my daughter worked with.”

At that moment, the reality of our situation hit me like a ton of bricks. The pain, the loss, the uncertainty of the future—it was all too much to bear. But I knew I had to be strong for my daughter, for the families affected, and for myself.

As we sat in the hospital room, the tension was palpable. Suddenly, Dave's radio crackled to life, “Firehouses 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 23, Rescue Co 17, and 18, USAR 3, Battalion 18, Battalion 19, Safety Battalion 3, Safety Battalion 4, Squad 541, Squad 525. Mass Cass Unit 7. All EPD Auxiliary and Highway Patrol respond to the East Interexchange. The overpass has collapsed with both firefighters and civilians down.”

Dave's face turned serious as he replied, “Copy, Sixteen Truck responding,” before bolting out of the room.

Martha looked confused, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation.

“It’s a 10-60 emergency,” Macaroni explained, her voice steady despite the chaos.

“A what?” I asked, feeling a knot form in my stomach.

“A major emergency,” Macaroni clarified. “It brings in 5 Engine Companies, 5 Ladder Companies, 4 Battalion Chiefs, 1 Deputy Chief, 1 FAST Unit, 1 Rescue Task Force - which includes 2 Rescue Co., 2 Collapse Rescue, 2 Squad Co., 1 Haz-Tac Officer, 1 Rescue Paramedic Unit, 1 Additional Rescue Co., Rescue Battalion, Safety Battalion, 1 Tactical Support Unit, SOC Logistics Support Unit, SOC Compressor Unit, Haz-Mat Battalion, Haz-Mat Company #32 or 33, Haz-Mat Technician Engine Company, Communication Unit, Field Communications Unit, Recuperation and Care Unit, and Public Information Officer.”

Martha, trying to shift the focus, said, “You need to think about other things, like walking down the aisle one day at a church or wedding venue.”

Macaroni's eyes flashed with determination. “If my girlfriend and I get married, it will be at a courthouse, not in a church. She’s both Agnostic and Atheist. And if we do get married, it will be cheap and on the fly, not something that takes months or years to plan.”

Martha looked at me, seeking support, but I stood firm. “I stand by my daughter’s decision. If and when they get married, Martha, you need to accept that you won’t be planning Macaroni's wedding. And she isn’t interested in marrying a guy.”

The room was filled with a heavy silence as the reality of our lives settled in. The chaos outside mirrored the turmoil within, but in that moment, I knew I had to be strong for my daughter, for the families affected, and for myself.

“Well, you need to start planning for when you’re ready to begin your walking rehab,” I said gently, trying to steer the conversation towards recovery.

Macaroni sighed, “I’ll start tomorrow.”

“What happened to you, Macaroni, doesn’t happen every day,” I reminded her, my voice filled with concern.

Macaroni, always quick with a quip, replied, “Neither is seeing a 100-foot Marshmallow man walking down the street.”

Martha looked puzzled. “I don’t get it,” she said, clearly out of the loop.

Macaroni and I exchanged a knowing glance. Of course, Martha wouldn’t know about the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters.

_____________

(Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson POV)

I found myself at the walking rehab center, feeling a mix of apprehension and determination. I knew this was a necessary step to get cleared for work, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was doing just fine without any assistance. The thought of using a cane or, heaven forbid, a walker, made me cringe. I didn't want to become one of those grumpy elders who whack people with their canes for misbehaving.

As I waited, a woman approached me with a warm smile. "Hello, Ms. Waterson. I'm Dr. Emily Carter, your walking rehab specialist," she said, extending her hand.

For a moment, I felt a surge of irritation. The name "Carter" brought back memories of someone I knew who was a real jerk. But I quickly reminded myself that not everyone with the surname Carter deserved my wrath. I took a deep breath and shook her hand.

"Nice to meet you," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral. "Where can I get started?"

Dr. Carter chuckled softly. "Slow down, Ms. Waterson. We're here to make sure you can walk properly, not to train you for a triathlon."

I couldn't help but smile at her lighthearted approach. It reminded me of my cousin, twice removed, who had been a gunship helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War. He had survived a helicopter crash that left him with severe injuries, including the removal of part of his stomach. Despite his limitations, he never went to rehab, not on his time nor the VA's. Instead, he found solace in hard work, knowing his limits, and watching football games, especially on Super Bowl Sunday.

As Dr. Carter led me through the initial assessments, I realized that this rehab journey was about more than just getting cleared for work. It was about understanding my own limits and finding ways to overcome them. With Dr. Carter's guidance, I felt a glimmer of hope that I could regain my strength and independence without losing my sense of humor and determination.

Dr. Carter then conducted a routine check-up, just like any other doctor would. She checked my vitals, asked about my medical history, and made sure there were no underlying issues that could affect my rehab. Once she was satisfied with the initial assessment, she led me to an examination room.

"Alright, Ms. Waterson," she said, her tone professional yet kind. "Let's talk about your rehabilitation plan. The first steps are crucial, and we need to ensure you're comfortable with them before we move on to more challenging exercises."

I nodded, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness. "How hard do you think the first steps will be for me?" I asked, trying to gauge what I was in for.

Dr. Carter smiled reassuringly. "We'll start with some easy steps, focusing on your balance and strength. It's important to take it slow and steady. Everyone progresses at their own pace, and we'll adjust the plan as needed based on how you're doing."

Her words put me at ease. I appreciated her thoughtful approach and the fact that she was willing to tailor the rehab plan to my specific needs. It was clear that she was dedicated to helping me regain my mobility and independence.

As we discussed the details of the plan, I couldn't help but feel a sense of determination. With Dr. Carter's guidance, I was ready to tackle the challenges ahead and take those first steps towards recovery.

"Do I have to use a walker or cane?" I asked, a hint of reluctance in my voice.

Dr. Carter nodded. "You'll need to use a walker while you're here in the rehab center, and we'll assign you a cane for when you're out and about."

I felt a pang of frustration at the thought of relying on these aids, but I knew it was necessary for my recovery. Just as I was about to ask about the cost, I remembered how fortunate I was to live in a country with universal healthcare. It was a relief to know that I wouldn't have to worry about the financial burden, even though my insurance only covered medical visits.

"So, what's the plan?" I asked, eager to get started.

Dr. Carter smiled warmly. "We'll begin with some basic exercises to improve your balance and strength. As you progress, we'll gradually introduce more challenging activities. The goal is to help you regain your mobility and confidence, step by step."

Her reassuring words gave me a sense of hope. I knew the journey ahead wouldn't be easy, but with Dr. Carter's guidance and support, I felt ready to face the challenges. It was time to take those first steps towards recovery, one careful step at a time.

"What kind of basic exercises?" I asked, wanting to ensure we were on the same page.

Dr. Carter smiled, appreciating my curiosity. "We'll start with some simple exercises to improve your balance and strength. These might include things like standing on one leg, heel-to-toe walking, and gentle leg lifts. We'll also work on your gait to make sure you're walking correctly and efficiently."

I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. "That sounds manageable."

"Absolutely," she replied. "The key is to take it slow and steady. We'll gradually increase the difficulty as you progress. Remember, it's all about building a strong foundation."

Her words gave me confidence. I knew that with her guidance, I could tackle these exercises and make steady progress. It was reassuring to know that we had a clear plan in place, and I was ready to take those first steps towards recovery.

"When I determine that you're comfortable and can manage that, then we'll move onto the hard stuff like sprinting and later running on a treadmill," Dr. Carter said with a warm smile.

I replied, "And other harder exercises for my cardio and walking exercises that’ll be challenging?"

Dr. Carter nodded. "Exactly. We'll incorporate more intense cardio exercises and advanced walking drills to really push your limits. The goal is to build your endurance and strength gradually, so you'll be ready for any physical challenges that come your way."

I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. The thought of sprinting and running on a treadmill seemed daunting, but I was determined to give it my all. With Dr. Carter's support and guidance, I knew I could tackle these challenges head-on and make significant progress in my recovery journey.

Dr. Carter smiled, appreciating my eagerness. "In addition to sprinting and running on the treadmill, we’ll incorporate a variety of advanced walking drills. She then slid me a piece of paper that says that these might include:

1. Incline Walking: Walking on an inclined surface to build strength and endurance in your legs.

2. Obstacle Courses: Navigating through a series of obstacles to improve your agility and coordination.

3. Speed Intervals: Alternating between fast and slow walking to boost your cardiovascular fitness.

4. Weighted Walks: Carrying light weights while walking to enhance your overall strength and stability.

5. Backward Walking: Walking backward to challenge your balance and engage different muscle groups.

Each of these drills is designed to push your limits and help you build a strong foundation for more intense physical activities. We’ll adjust the difficulty based on your progress to ensure you’re always challenged but not overwhelmed."

I felt a surge of determination. The variety of exercises sounded both challenging and exciting. With Dr. Carter’s guidance, I was ready to tackle these advanced drills and make significant strides in my recovery journey.

"Any other harder ones?" I asked, curious about what else lay ahead.

Dr. Carter nodded. "Yes, another challenging exercise is running a mile on a track. This will be one of the final tests to ensure you've built up your endurance and strength. If you can complete that, it will be a significant milestone in your recovery."

I took a deep breath, feeling a mix of anticipation and determination. Running a mile seemed like a daunting task, but I was ready to face it head-on. With Dr. Carter's support and the progress I'd already made, I felt confident that I could rise to the challenge and achieve my goals.

"Have you ever worked with a first responder before?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Dr. Carter nodded. "Yes, I primarily assist police officers who get injured on the job, but I've worked with all kinds of first responders. Firefighters, Paramedics, EMTs—you name it. They often face unique challenges in their recovery, and it's my job to help them get back to full duty."

Her words reassured me. Knowing that she had experience working with people in high-stress, physically demanding jobs like mine made me feel more confident in her ability to guide me through this process. I was ready to tackle whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing I was in capable hands.

___________________

Back at my apartment, I finally sank into the comfort of my couch, ready to unwind. Just as I started to relax, there was a knock at the door.

"Please, not another visit from those religious zealots," I muttered to myself. The last thing I needed was a lecture on why their beliefs trumped everyone else's.

I opened the door and was taken aback. Standing there was a woman who looked eerily like me, but with striking blue eyes and a few battle scars etched into her face.

"Who are you?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Cadenza Amore," she replied. "I'm Mitchell's half-sister. We share the same mother, thanks to superfecundation."

I couldn't help but notice the toughness in her demeanor. "You've seen some fights," I remarked.

Cadenza's eyes hardened. "You don't win fights or wars by playing patty cake," she said, her voice carrying the weight of experience.

"Can I ask what you're doing here, Ms. Amore?" I inquired, trying to mask my surprise.

"Mitchell told me you might need some help around the house after what happened," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact.

"Well, it was nice of him to think of that, but I'm not really comfortable with a housekeeper or a caretaker," I admitted, feeling a bit uneasy about the whole situation.

Cadenza gave a small, reassuring smile. "I'm not here to be a housekeeper or a caretaker. Think of me more as a helper, someone to make sure you don't have to be on your feet all the time when you need something," she explained, downplaying the formality of her role.

I decided to let her in anyway, curiosity getting the better of me.

“So, what do you do?” I asked, hoping to get a better sense of who this mysterious woman was.

Cadenza’s expression remained unreadable. “Classified,” she replied, with a hint of a smirk.

Great, I thought. This was going to be interesting.

From Cadenza’s hourglass figure and athletic build, it was clear that her job was physically demanding.

"Special Forces?" I ventured, trying to piece together the puzzle.

"In a way," she responded, her tone cryptic.

"If I had to guess, I'd say you're with one of the five Little Bird Special Forces Groups, similar to the Green Berets and Delta Force. Or maybe the Silent Serpents, which are somewhat publicly known," I speculated.

Cadenza shook her head with a slight smile. "Nope, not them," she said, leaving me even more intrigued.

"Army Rangers? Marine Commandos?" I guessed, knowing those two were also part of the elite Little Bird military special forces.

"Nope," Cadenza replied, her expression giving nothing away.

"Project Phoenix?" I ventured, hoping this time I'd hit the mark.

Cadenza's eyes lit up. "Ding, ding, ding. You win."

"Win what?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Finally getting the right answer," she said with a grin.

"Military brat?" I asked, curious about her background.

Cadenza nodded. "Father's a General in the army. I spent most of my time off in school with him. His wife didn't want kids and walked out before I was born. During the war, she was caught selling secrets to the Soviets, acting like it was no big deal. My unit captured her, and she tried to play innocent. I told her that selling military information is a capital offense, punishable by death. She tried to act like a loving mother, but I made it clear she wasn't my mother. She walked out before I was born and never cared to check up on me or my father."

Her story was intense, and I could see the pain and resolve in her eyes. "That's... a lot to deal with," I said softly, trying to offer some comfort.

Cadenza shrugged. "I made my peace with it."

"And the woman who your dad was with before leaving and not checking up on you two?" I asked, genuinely curious about her fate.

Cadenza's expression hardened. "It's called a firing squad for a reason. Here in Little Bird, trading government and military secrets is a capital offense. Offenders face either the firing squad or the electric chair."

"Yeah, I know Little Bird is one of the few countries with the death penalty options like hanging, firing squad, gas chamber, and electric chair. The firing squad is considered the most humane because the country refuses to adopt lethal injection, seeing it as too humane for those on death row," I said, recalling my own knowledge. "Back in Alabama, where I'm from, there's a prison with an execution chamber in Escambia County."

Cadenza nodded. "Capital punishment laws here are absolute and not to be taken lightly. Those who sell or trade government or military secrets get to choose between the firing squad or the electric chair. For other death row crimes, it's a one-in-four chance among the methods, but for treason, including selling secrets, there are only two options."

Cadenza leaned against the wall, her posture relaxed yet alert.

"You can sit down if you want," I offered.

She shook her head with a polite smile. "I prefer to stand."

"So, what's your father like?" I asked, genuinely curious about the man who raised such a formidable woman.

"He's the type who, if I overheard him say something, wouldn't deny it or gaslight me. He always comes clean," Cadenza began. "He knows I'm not a female version of him. The only thing we really share is an interest in firearms. I have friends whose parents hate their own children because they don't share the same interests. They drive their kids away by forcing their hobbies down their throats. Those kids run away, and their parents never see their weddings, their grandchildren, or have family at funerals because they pushed them away."

Cadenza continued, sharing stories about friends whose fathers wanted them to be gearheads, but they were more into sports, or mothers who wanted their daughters to be artists or book club members, but they had different passions. "If I were a mother," she said thoughtfully, "I'd encourage my child to pursue their own interests. I know children aren't carbon copies of their parents. Sure, some hobbies get passed down, but not everyone shares the same passions."

Her words resonated with me, painting a vivid picture of her values and the kind of person she was. It was clear that Cadenza valued individuality and understood the importance of letting people be who they truly are.

I was tempted to bring up genetics but decided against it. "So, your rank?" I asked instead.

Cadenza replied, "Lt-Cmdr 1856385-CA."

I scratched my head, trying to decode the military jargon.

"Lieutenant Commander," she clarified with a small smile.

"Have you ever been in a tough battle?" I asked, genuinely curious about her experiences.

Her eyes darkened slightly, and she nodded. "More than I'd like to remember," she said quietly. "But those battles have shaped who I am today."

__________________________

(Cadenza Amore POV)

August 20th, 2005

I led Fireteam Saber alongside a convoy of APCs, the rumble of their engines a constant reminder of the tension in the air.

Tech Sgt Francis muttered, "Can't believe some Soviets slipped past our line."

I responded, my voice steady, "It's our job to push them back. Command considered using dogs to flush them out, but the Reds dug in deep. Chemical warfare is off the table, so we'll handle this the old-fashioned way."

Suddenly, an RPG struck the lead APC. The soldiers riding on top leaped off just in time, but those inside weren't so lucky. The explosion was a stark reminder of the brutal reality of our mission.

The battle raged on as we engaged the Soviets. The remaining two APCs unleashed their .50 Cal HMGs, strategically positioned behind the wreckage of the lead vehicle. This provided them with cover, ensuring that any incoming RPGs had a higher chance of deflecting off the frontal armor or hitting the surrounding trees rather than destroying the APCs.

We advanced cautiously. The APCs held their position, refusing to move until we neutralized the Soviet Anti-Armor teams. The terrain ahead was treacherous, with inclines that could trap the vehicles or stall their engines. Realizing this, we had to make the tough call to turn the APCs around and find a more navigable route.

Every decision was critical, every move calculated. This was warfare at its most brutal and unforgiving.

We reached the entrenched Soviet positions, and Fireteam Saber took the brunt of their fire. Their bullets bounced harmlessly off our armor, leaving the Soviets bewildered and frustrated. We served as the perfect distraction, allowing our assault teams to maneuver around and flank them from the left. The Soviets, fixated on us, couldn't comprehend why their bullets were ineffective.

As the battle raged on, I couldn't help but think of the dire situation for the Soviets in Fort Suction. Surrounded by half a million Little Birden soldiers, the 100,000 Soviets were being relentlessly pounded by mortar, artillery, and rocket fire. The air force added to their misery with cluster bombs, laser-guided bombs, and napalm. Stories circulated about how our artillery guns had to pause to cool down due to the intense rate of fire, even on the first day of the invasion.

Despite the overwhelming odds, we were up against a battalion-sized element of Soviet forces that had breached our lines. Every moment was a test of our resolve and tactics, but we pressed on, determined to push them back and secure our position.

As we moved forward.

"Reinforcements," I announced, spotting another APC and friendly assault infantry advancing behind it. This time, the APC was an armored flamethrower, moving in on our western flank.

Suddenly, a squadron of jets roared overhead. Moments later, the Soviet depot we were closing in on erupted in a massive explosion.

"Does the Air Force know we're here?" I muttered to myself, questioning the timing and proximity of the strike. The battlefield was a chaotic symphony of fire and steel, and every second counted.

Command ordered us to halt our advance. Intelligence suggested a Soviet Battalion HQ was holed up in a cave ahead. Instead of digging them out, we were going to force them out by burning them out.

We waited for the tanks to arrive. The Little Bird military fielded a variety of tanks, including the M1, M1A1, M2, and M2A2 Main Battle Tanks. Each had different variants: Self-Propelled Gun, Self-Propelled Anti-Air Gun, Tank Destroyer, Armored Recovery Vehicle, Armored Engineer Vehicle, Amphibious, Bridge laying, and Armored Flamethrower. Although flamethrowers are considered obsolete and primarily used for clearing foliage around bases, they were our last resort for flushing out entrenched enemies when airstrikes were too risky or when our units were pinned down and unable to use rocket launchers.

We prepared for the next phase, knowing that the Soviets would soon face the full might of our armored flamethrowers. The anticipation was palpable, every soldier ready for the order to advance.

Our assault teams were equipped with man-portable flamethrowers, each with just ten seconds of fuel. The flamethrower tanks varied by type, generally holding thirty seconds of fuel. The Army's APCs, designed as armored flamethrowers, and the Navy's armored vehicles could shoot napalm, for up to a minute.

The assault teams exhausted their underbarrel and handheld grenade launchers, firing incendiary and high-explosive grenades until they ran out. We held our position, waiting for the tanks to arrive. When they did, they weren't the flamethrower variants we had hoped for but the main battle tanks. However, they were armed with 120mm white phosphorus shells, ready to burn out the Soviet forces entrenched in the cave.

We prepared for the next phase, knowing that the Soviets would soon face the relentless onslaught of our combined firepower. The tension was palpable, every soldier ready for the order to advance.

If we had been the Marines, we might have employed the "Blowtorch" and "Corkscrew" method. A Combat Engineer or Armored Flamethrower would act as the "Blowtorch," blasting fire into fortified positions, while soldiers with automatic weapons provided suppressive fire as the "Corkscrew." Alternatively, we could have used explosives to collapse the cave.

But our orders were clear: burn the Soviets out. That's exactly what we did. The white phosphorus shells from our tanks ignited the cave, forcing the Soviets out into the open. It was brutal, but it was effective. We executed our mission with precision, ensuring no Soviet forces remained entrenched.

The remnants of the Soviet Battalion scattered, engaging in fierce firefights with other Little Bird Army units. To me, war is a stark reminder of mortality. Seeing the Soviets burning, I ordered my men to put them out of their misery. It was the humane thing to do; leaving them to suffer was inhumane.

My father always said, "Soldiers of all countries are the same at the end of the day, questioning their choices and hoping they've done the right thing." This resonates deeply with me. Regardless of our backgrounds or the flags we fight under, we are all human. We may battle for different reasons, but at the end of the day, we share the same fears, hopes, and humanity.

__________

(Current day/ Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson POV)

Cadenza finished her story, and I listened intently. At one point, I couldn't help but interject. "I thought flamethrowers were either banned or considered obsolete?"

"Yes, flamethrowers are considered obsolete," she replied. "Nowadays, they're mostly used in agriculture for controlled burns, clearing brush, melting snow and ice, incinerating weeds and insect hives, and for pyrotechnic events. The military still uses them to clear out foliage and other obstacles. Despite some beliefs, flamethrowers aren't generally banned. However, the United Nations Protocol on Incendiary Weapons forbids their use against civilians and forests, unless those forests are being used to conceal combatants or other military objectives."

Her explanation was thorough, and I found myself learning more about the practical uses and regulations surrounding such a controversial weapon. It was clear that Cadenza's knowledge extended far beyond just combat skills.

"So, who gets assigned a flamethrower in Little Bird?" I asked, genuinely curious about the specifics.

"Combat Engineers and Assault Engineers," Cadenza replied.

"What's the difference?" I asked, wanting to understand more.

"Combat Engineers are responsible for building or destroying structures in a combat zone. They're issued weapons for both defense and offense," she explained. "Assault Engineers, on the other hand, are similar but are equipped for offensive actions. They blow up obstacles to deny enemy access while fighting on the frontlines alongside regular soldiers. The Little Bird Military also has Rear Echelon Engineers who stay back at base to keep things running smoothly. However, they can be pressed into Combat or Assault Engineer roles if additional manpower is needed. Combat Engineers use ARVs, or Armored Recovery Vehicles, and AEVs Armored Engineer Vehicles, while Rear Echelon Engineers and Assault Engineers do not."

Her detailed explanation painted a clear picture of the different roles and responsibilities within the engineering units, highlighting the versatility and importance of each group in military operations.

"Why do I have a feeling that an ARV or AEV are like the British AVRE, or Armored Vehicle Royal Engineers, from World War II? Those vehicles could handle demolitions, mine clearing, tracks, roadways, bridge laying, and gap clearing," I said, trying to connect the dots.

Cadenza nodded. "You're spot on. In World War I, the Little Bird Army of Engineers designed specialized trucks to create temporary bridges over anti-tank trenches, preventing tanks from getting stuck. By World War II, they had developed ARVs and AEVs, including a variant of the Armored Engineer Vehicle equipped with a mortar or a 105mm gun. These turned into heavy assault vehicles capable of destroying enemy defenses or supporting troops without exposing them. Although the heavy assault vehicles often undershot their targets, they had a tool that could make the shells more dangerous. This tool allowed the shells to bounce off the ground, creating a delayed explosion that could catch enemies off guard thinking it’s a dud."

Her explanation was fascinating, revealing the ingenuity and adaptability of military engineering over the years. It was clear that Cadenza had a deep understanding of her field, and I couldn't help but be impressed by the history and evolution of these specialized vehicles.

"So, what's your favorite engineering vehicle?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Without hesitation, Cadenza replied, "The armored flamethrower. It's incredibly effective at forcing the enemy out of their positions without putting friendly infantry at risk. It can clear out bunkers, trenches, and fortified positions, making it a powerful tool on the battlefield."

Her answer made perfect sense, given her background and expertise. The armored flamethrower was a formidable piece of equipment, and it was clear why it held a special place in her arsenal.

"What about you? What's your favorite vehicle?" Cadenza asked, turning the question back to me.

"Does it have to be an engineering vehicle?" I asked, wanting to broaden the scope.

"Nope," she replied with a smile.

"Then I'd have to say the Willys MB," I said. "The jeep that won World War II for the Allies."

Cadenza nodded appreciatively. "A classic choice. Versatile, reliable, and iconic. It played a crucial role in the war effort."

"Exactly," I agreed. "It's amazing how such a simple vehicle could have such a significant impact. I even had family members drive or ride on it in the war."

Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a message from my dad. He said Martha wanted to come and stay with me until my walking rehab was done. I immediately texted back, telling him to keep Martha away or I'd file a restraining order. She just couldn't see that I was a 26-year-old woman, not a little girl or a rebellious teenager.

My dad defended Martha, saying she was just being overprotective and saw me as the daughter she never had. I pointed out that I was born in 1984, while Martha was born in 1980, and her twin sons were born in the '90s when she was in 11th grade. I could do the math. I firmly told my dad that I already had an aide—my cousin Mitchell's half-sister, Cadenza—who would be my live-in assistant. I insisted that Martha stay away, warning that if she showed up, I'd call the cops and report her for harassment and stalking.

Dad texted back, saying he'd try to convince Martha to stay in Alabama and not fly thousands of miles to be with me.

Cadenza shared more about her past. She told me how, during the war, her unit captured her father's wife, who tried to play the mother card despite not being Cadenza's mother. Cadenza had no qualms about arresting her for selling military secrets to the Soviets. She even wanted her executed by electric chair without the wet sponge, but the military opted for a firing squad instead.

Cadenza explained that she never really had a mother, just her father. She and Mitchell didn't even know they were half-siblings until a few years back in '08. Their arguments as friends always felt more like sibling squabbles, which made sense once they discovered their true relationship. They had gone through elementary, middle, and part of high school as friends, completely unaware that they were actually family.