I still remember how the oversized blue costume hung past my knees and how the cheap plastic badge pressed into my chest. I was five, it was Halloween, and I was certain I’d be a police officer someday — with the unshakable conviction only children possess.

No one took it seriously. “She’ll want to be a princess next year,” Aunt Cici laughed. But I never wavered — not when other girls swapped handcuffs for tiaras, or when boys mocked me for being “too soft.”

I paid for the academy by working graveyard shifts at a rundown diner. On many nights, I came home exhausted, soaked shoes and aching feet, with that little badge taped to my mirror as my reminder.

My first solo traffic stop made my heart race. Then came the hard calls — overdoses, domestic violence, even a hostage crisis that still haunts me. But I stayed. I endured.

Last week, I was promoted to sergeant. On my desk was a small box — inside, my childhood badge, bent and weathered. My dad had saved it all these years. I cried, not from pride, but because deep down, I always believed I’d get here.

I almost didn’t. The night before my academy final, I was sleep-deprived and in pain from a 12-hour diner shift. I nearly quit. My friend Trina texted: “You didn’t come this far to give up.” That got me through.

Two years later, I rescued a missing boy. The department erased my name from the story. That night, I took the badge down.