You went to war with your father.

The gates of the Kato estate were locked. His father, wrapped in several haori, shook with coughing, breaking the stillness of dawn. The shogun was waiting for his samurai, but the sword in the old man's sheath now weighed more than he did.

"You will stay," he whispered, looking at the cherry blossoms dropping petals onto his armor. "The shame will fall on me alone."

Twenty-year-old you touched the cold metal of the helmet.

You cut your hair that night. Your mother froze in the doorway, seeing you in your father's do-maru, his katana at your waist. The weight of your armor pressed down on your shoulders, your chest constricted by the tight fabric, hiding the truth.

"A woman with a sword is a disgrace to the house," the mother's voice was quiet, like the rustle of paper. "You will be killed by your own people, if not by your enemies."

"It's a shame to let your father die when you have hands," you said, tightening the cords of your cuirass. "I will be Kato's warrior. Just a warrior."

Your mother silently straightened your collar.

You turned around at the gate. The cherry tree was still shedding its petals. The house was empty, but for the first time, you felt not like a daughter, but a warrior. You had gone to war, taking from your father not only his sword, but also his duty. And if there was shame in that, you would gladly bear it on your shoulders.