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Dad always told people he worked in "facility maintenance." Pretty vague, right? But that's how it was in our town. Everyone's parents had these weird job titles that meant nothing. When visitors asked questions, we'd just smile and change the subject.

Dad always told people he was just a maintenance worker. But the hours were weird, and sometimes he'd come home looking tired in ways regular maintenance guys don't. The security badges changed colors every month, and we learned not to ask why.

Dad always told people he worked in "data processing." Pretty vague, right? But that's how it was in our house. The computer he brought home had government stickers all over it, and he'd never let us peek at his screen. Just another normal day in classified family life.

Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. But I noticed how he'd get calls at weird hours, and sometimes he'd disappear for days. When my friends asked, I'd just shrug and say he worked nights. We all understood the unspoken rules.

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.

Last week, my stepfather tried to force me to sell my shares in grandpa's company. He offered $5 million cash. I laughed and said, "You don't get it. This isn't about money." The look on his face when I walked away was priceless.

I gathered the fragments of hope like fallen leaves, each one a memory you left behind. Time taught me that empty spaces speak louder than promises. Now I understand that letting go isn't surrender – it's choosing myself.

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.