Our home was a shrine to the sea. Naval memorabilia adorned every wall—framed charts, antique sextants, photographs of battleships cutting through gray waves. Dinner conversations weren’t about school or friends; they were debriefings on maritime strategy and military history.

My father’s booming voice would fill our dining room with tales of his deployments, his eyes gleaming with pride as my younger brother, Jack, absorbed every word like a sponge.

I listened too, equally fascinated, my mind racing with tactical possibilities. But somehow, my enthusiasm was never received the same way.

“Samantha has a sharp mind,” my father would tell his Navy buddies, swirling his scotch. “But she lacks the discipline for service. Too much head, not enough gut.”