Where I was meant to be.

The forgotten middle child becomes more than she thought she would ever be.

Where I was meant to be.

          I've always been the middle one. Not the golden child like my older sister Evelyn--valedictorian, ballet dancer, ran the charity walk every year like it was her sacred duty. Not the jock like Liam, captain of the football and baseball teams. Not the sweetheart like Claire, who brought meals to sick neighbors and organized food drives. And certainly not little Noah, the prodigy who started coding at ten and launched an app by fifteen that got featured in a tech magazine.

          Me? Marjorie. The quiet one. The one who blended into the wallpaper. If you asked my family what I was known for, they'd probably tilt their heads and say, "Oh, Marjorie? She's... nice."

          And maybe I was. But I was also tired--tired of being overlooked, tired of feeling like I was just passing through life in someone else's shadow. So, when the Air Force recruiter came to the career fair at my community college, I didn't go looking for anything extraordinary. I just saw an open door. And I walked through it.

          Air Traffic Control. That's what I signed up for. Most people thought I was joking. "You? The girl who used to get lost going to the bathroom during family reunions?" Liam teased. Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "It's... intense," she said, as if I couldn't manage intensity.

          But I could. More than anyone knew.

          Basic training was brutal, yes--waking before dawn, cold showers, push-ups in the mud--but I wasn't doing it to impress anyone. I was doing it for me. For the first time, I wasn't trying to be better than my siblings. I wasn't trying to be anything but Marjorie, who showed up, stayed sharp, and didn't quit.

          And then came tech school. Hours of simulations, learning radar patterns, memorizing procedures, speaking in that clipped, precise radio cadence. The classroom was quiet except for the hum of computers and the occasional instructor's question. I raised my hand. I asked for help when I needed it. I studied until my eyes burned.

          By graduation, I was in the top three in my class.

          They sent me to Osan Air Base in South Korea. At first, the chaos of the control tower overwhelmed me--fighters roaring down the runway, cargo planes taxiing in tight sequences, the constant radio chatter in my headset. But I adjusted. I thrived. There's a rhythm to it once you surrender to the precision. A calm in the storm when you know your job keeps people safe.

          One night, during a typhoon, a C-17 with engine trouble diverted to our airfield. Winds were gusting at fifty knots, visibility near zero. The pilot's voice crackled over the line, tight with strain. "Cockpits lit up like a Christmas tree. We're declaring an emergency."

          My heart pounded, but my hands stayed steady. I coordinated with the team, cleared the runway, and guided him in with real-time updates on wind shear and braking action. I remember the exact words I used: "C-17 Heavy, Osan Approach. Winds 290 at 45, gusting 55. Runway 06 is clear. You're number one. Cleared to land. Emergency services standing by."

          When the wheels touched down and he rolled to a stop, the tower erupted in quiet applause. The supervisor clapped me on the shoulder. "Nice work, Captain."

          Captain.

          I just hadn't stayed the course. I'd earned a rank. In four years, I'd gone from being the girl who barely made the honor roll to leading a team during one of the most critical landings of the season.

          Back home, my parents sent a care package--homemade cookies, a note from each sibling. Liam wrote, "Didn't know you had it in you, Midge." Claire drew a little airplane with a crown. And Evelyn--Evelyn sent a book about leadership with a note: "I always knew you were strong. I just didn't know how much."

          I smiled. It wasn't about their approval, not really. But it felt good. Like maybe, finally, they saw me.

          On base, I started mentoring new airmen. A young woman from Texas, nervous and bright, once asked me, "How'd you get so good at this?"

          I thought about it. "I guess," I said, "I just stopped trying to be someone else."

          She nodded slowly, like it made sense.

          Outside the tower window, the sky was clear, stars sharp above the runway lights. A KC-135 taxied into position, ready for takeoff. I picked up the mic.

          "Tango Victor Seven-Niner, Osan Tower. Winds calm. Runway 06 is clear. Cleared for takeoff. Godspeed."

          And as the plane lifted into the night, I sat back, breathing steadily, heart full.

          For the first time in my life, I wasn't average.

          I was exactly where I was meant to be.

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