My mother-in-law shaved my head while I slept on the very night the United States Army promoted me into one of the most important commands of my career.

“I already regret you,” I said.

Then I walked out.

Behind me, Linda began shouting, but the door closed before I could hear the words clearly.

Outside, the evening air touched my bare scalp, cool and clean.

For the first time, leaving that house did not feel like failure.

It felt like escape.

That night, Sarah called.

“The storage drive had scans,” she said.

“What kind?”

“Your signature. Hundreds of times. Practice sheets. Copies of your passport. Military documents. Financial records. Medical forms.”