At five, I wore a baggy blue costume and a plastic badge, convinced I’d be a police officer someday. Everyone thought it was a phase—but I never let it go.

I paid for the academy by working overnight shifts at a diner, often coming home soaked and exhausted. That old Halloween badge stayed taped to my mirror, my quiet reminder to keep going.

The job was hard — traffic stops, overdoses, domestic calls. Once, even a hostage situation. But I kept going. Last week, I was promoted to sergeant. On my new desk was a tiny box—from my dad. Inside: that same old plastic badge. I cried—not because I’d finally made it, but because I’d always believed I would.