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Dad always told visitors he worked in "data management." It became our inside joke at dinner. We knew the massive satellite dishes behind his office weren't for managing spreadsheets. But that's how it was growing up - everyone had their cover stories.

I found an old photograph in my father's study yesterday. The edges were worn, showing a group of scientists in white coats, but their faces were deliberately blurred. On the back, written in faded ink: "Project Echo, 1982. Remember to forget."

The old photograph fell from between the pages of my father's journal. It showed three men in white lab coats standing before a steel door marked "Section 7." Dad never mentioned working there, but then again, there were many things he never discussed.

In the depths of my heart, I held these dreams, these moments, these precious fragments of time. But dreams like these need wings to fly, stories like these need voices to be heard, and a heart like this needs freedom to truly beat.

Dad always told visitors we had a normal suburban life. But normal families don't have weekly security sweeps or get calls at midnight about "special patients." Mom would just smile and say some medical emergencies can't wait for daylight.

Dad always told people he was just a security guard at the base. Simple job, nothing special. But I noticed how he never brought his uniform home, never talked about coworkers. When friends asked, he'd just smile and say "Night shift's pretty quiet."

Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. Pretty vague, right? But that's how things worked in our town. When your neighbor's car showed up with strange dents and scorch marks, you learned not to ask questions. That's just life near the base.

Dad always told us not to mention mom's work at school. When friends asked why she worked nights, I'd just shrug and say "government stuff." It became normal, like the black cars that sometimes followed us or the strange calls at midnight.