But I held my ground. I stood tall. I didn’t flinch because I knew something they didn’t. And then it happened. The sound of synchronized footsteps echoed down the cobblestone street. I didn’t need to turn to know who they were. The precision, the discipline, the sheer gravity of their presence.
Twelve Marines dressed in full ceremonial uniform marched in formation toward the church. They halted exactly three paces from me. The air shifted, guests turned, whispers died, and then came the moment that silenced even the most venomous tongues.
A four-star general in immaculate dress blue stepped forward. He removed his hat with gloved hands and held it to his chest. And then, with crisp precision, he saluted me.
“General J. Maddox, ma’am,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “We are here to honor both your grandfather’s service and yours.”
