The Shape of Obedience

To my husband
Northern Sector | Temporary Assignment

You ask how she is. She is failing. Not in her grades. Not in her posture. But in the one thing that matters: her reflection of us.

Last night, she contradicted me. Openly. Not with rage—no, that I might understand. But with softness. With feeling. As if she were the victim in her own life.

She has begun to weep when corrected. She speaks of “needing space.” She dares to suggest that her performance is not who she truly is. As if truth were something separate from duty.

Let me be clear: I will not tolerate this. Not from my daughter. Not in this house.

Do you remember the medals she won? The years of perfect posture, perfect diction, perfect praise from the cadre? That is what people remember. That is what they expect. And if she slips now—if she slips even once—it is me they will question. Us. Our name.

There will be no disgrace. I will not allow it.

I warned her. If a command is not enough, my hand will be. Not in anger—never in anger. In correction. In love, as this system defines it.

I will strip this softness from her, thread by thread, until she remembers what she was made for.

You will see: when you return, she will be ready to stand beside us again. Not because she wants to. But because she must. And if not—then I will reshape her until she does.

Your wife
(still proud. still unbroken.)