I’ll condense this powerful military widow story to approximately 6,500 words while preserving the emotional impact and strategic narrative.

The Fortress He Left Behind

My name is Major Molly Martin. I’m 35 years old, and I have just buried the only man who ever saw the person behind the uniform.

Just 24 hours after an American flag was folded with solemn precision and placed into my trembling hands, I stood on the threshold of my own home and watched it being pillaged. My father-in-law, Raymond, was directing his sons as they carried out my grandmother’s armchair. His voice was cold as steel. “The family legacy must be returned to the bloodline, girl. Your tour of duty here is over.”

My mother-in-law, Patricia, smiled at me—a smile as sweet as southern iced tea, but laced with contempt. She picked up our wedding photo from the mantle, slid my picture out from behind the glass, and dropped it into a trash bin. “We’ll keep the one of Marcus,” she said casually. “He doesn’t need you in the background anymore, anyway.”

They treated me like a sentry whose watch had ended. But they made a fatal mistake. They thought they were fighting a lone widow. They had no idea they were marching onto a battlefield my husband had already prepared.

The Ambush

The air in Charleston is a living thing. It’s heavy, wet, and clings to your skin like a second uniform you can’t strip off. After the funeral, after the final salute and the gut-wrenching sound of Taps echoing in the humid air, I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. The silence in that house would have been louder than any battlefield. Instead, I drove back to the base and spent the night in the empty quiet of my office, surrounded by the sterile comfort of government-issue furniture. It was a place of order, of logic—a place where grief had no regulation, but duty did.

By morning, I felt steady enough. I’d put on my uniform. Not the dress blues, but my daily fatigues. It felt like armor. I pulled my Jeep onto our quiet, oak-lined street. Sunlight filtered through the Spanish moss, painting dappled patterns on the pavement. It looked peaceful, serene. But as I walked up the brick pathway to my front door, the first alarm bell sounded. The door was slightly ajar. I never left it ajar.

My hand went to my pocket, fumbling for my keys out of pure habit. I slid the key into the lock. It didn’t turn. I tried again, pushing harder. Nothing. It felt like hitting a wall of solid steel. They had changed the locks.

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I took a steadying breath, straightened my back, and pressed the doorbell. After a long moment, the door creaked open. My brother-in-law, Timothy, stood there, shirtless, a half-eaten bag of potato chips in his hand. He looked at me with annoyance, like I was a door-to-door salesman interrupting his Saturday morning.

“Oh, it’s you,” he mumbled through a mouthful of chips. He didn’t move aside. I had to step around him to enter my own home.

And then I saw it. The living room wasn’t a home anymore. It was a staging area for an evacuation. My father-in-law, Raymond Coleman, stood in the center of the room like a four-star general surveying conquered territory. He held a clipboard, a pen tucked behind his ear, and was directing two movers I didn’t recognize. The air was thick with the cloying humidity of Charleston and the sharp, cheap scent of Raymond’s cigar smoke.

He looked up, his eyes sweeping over me without a flicker of compassion. “You’re back sooner than we expected,” he said, his voice flat. Not I’m sorry for your loss. Not How are you holding up? Just a statement of tactical inconvenience. He tapped his clipboard. “We’re proceeding with the transfer.”

That word: transfer. He said it like he was talking about a military base being decommissioned, not a home being ripped apart.

Just then, a voice dripped down from the top of the stairs, sweet as honey laced with arsenic. “Well, look who’s here.”

Patricia, my mother-in-law, descended, holding my jewelry box. She opened the lid and peered inside with distaste. “My, these things look awfully simple, Molly, dear,” she cooed, her southern drawl thickening. “Are these standard issue? You can take them, of course. We have no need for them.”

My breath hitched, but I said nothing. Then her eyes landed on the wall above the fireplace. It was my wall of honor. My framed medals—the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart, commendations from tours in places she couldn’t pronounce. Patricia wrinkled her nose. “Gerald,” she called to her other son, who was taping up a box of books. “Take those things down. They simply don’t match the aesthetic of the house.”

The words hit me harder than any physical blow. It wasn’t about aesthetics. It was about erasure. They were systematically removing any trace that I, Major Molly Martin, had ever existed within these walls.

I finally found my voice. It came out low and steady. The voice of a commander, not a grieving widow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Raymond turned slowly, deliberately. He took the cigar from his mouth and looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my uniform with disdain. “Listen here, girl,” he said, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Marcus may have married you, but he couldn’t make you a Coleman. Blood is blood. This property, this legacy, was built on the sweat of our ancestors. It will not be left in the hands of a transient soldier who could be shipped off at a moment’s notice.”

Every word was a calculated strike. He gestured around the room. “You have two hours to collect your personal effects. Anything left after that will be considered family property and disposed of accordingly.”

A final eviction notice. My training kicked in. When faced with an ambush, you don’t charge blindly. You assess. You gather intelligence. You find the tactical advantage. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. Instead, I took a single step back, leaned against the wall, and crossed my arms. My face became a neutral mask.

I watched. I watched them carry out my grandmother’s armchair. I watched Gerald take down my medals. I watched Patricia walk through the rooms, claiming things. And I watched Raymond, overseeing the dismantling of my life with the smug satisfaction of a conqueror.

They saw a defeated woman. They were wrong. They were being observed by an intelligence officer. My silence wasn’t surrender. It was surveillance.

The Battle Plan

The night was supposed to be a celebration. It was three months before Marcus passed away. We were at a cousin’s wedding at a historic plantation, a place where the oak trees were older than the country itself. After an hour of forced pleasantries, I slipped away to the manicured gardens for a moment of peace.

As I started back, I heard voices drifting from a darkened veranda. It was Raymond, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone to his sons. “When Marcus is gone,” he said, his voice stripped of all its public charm, “we have to move fast. The wife has certain residency rights, but we can apply pressure. Make things uncomfortable.”

I pressed myself flat against the cold brick wall, my heart hammering.

“She’s a soldier,” Raymond continued with disdain. “She’s used to moving. All we have to do is make it clear she’s not welcome, and she’ll pack her bags and leave on her own. A clean break.”

They were talking about Marcus’s death not as a tragedy, but as a logistical checkpoint.

“The vet clinic is the real prize,” Gerald chimed in, his voice greedy. “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Henderson. He’s ready to make a serious offer the moment it’s available.”

Then a fourth voice joined them, and it was the one that broke me. It was Patricia. She let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t you worry your pretty little head. What is she going to demand? She came into this family with nothing but a duffel bag. She’ll leave the same way. You just leave her to me. Woman to woman. I know exactly what to say to make her understand her place.”

My heart didn’t just break. It stopped. This wasn’t just dislike; this was a calculated, cold, and methodical conspiracy.

The drive home was silent. “Molly, what’s wrong?” Marcus finally asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

I didn’t cry. The soldier took over. I turned to him and gave him an after-action report. “Objective: Full seizure of all assets, including the house and the clinic,” I stated, looking straight ahead. “Method of operation: psychological pressure to induce a voluntary withdrawal. Timeline for execution: immediately following your death.”

Marcus said nothing. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He didn’t question me. He knew. We pulled into our driveway, and he turned off the engine. The soft, gentle man I loved was gone. In his place was someone I had never seen before. His eyes, usually so warm, were now sharp, cold, and utterly resolute.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “They’ve declared war. It’s time we draw up a battle plan.”

Inside, our small kitchen became a secret war room. Marcus pulled out a worn leather briefcase I had never seen before and clicked it open. “They’ve always thought I was soft,” he began, his voice cold and precise. “They mistook my kindness for weakness. They were wrong.”

He pulled out a thick file folder. “I’ve been preparing for this for a long time.”

He explained that the day his father cornered me at the country club, demanding I sign a prenuptial agreement, was the day he knew this battle was inevitable. He hadn’t gone to the family lawyer. He sought out a man named Charles Peyton, a legal pitbull known as “The Cleaner.”

“I’ve met with Charles twice a year for the past seven years,” Marcus confessed. My jaw nearly hit the floor. For seven years, my gentle husband had been quietly building a fortress around me.

He laid out the documents. Defensive Line One: Joint Tenancy with Right of Survivorship. He had systematically restructured the ownership of the house, the clinic, and our investments. “Think of it as a legal minefield,” he said, a grim smile on his lips. “The moment I’m gone, ownership of everything automatically and immediately transfers to you. It completely bypasses the will. It bypasses them. They can’t touch it.”

The house on Magnolia Street. The veterinary clinic downtown. Our joint investment accounts. Every single asset had been quietly, methodically refortified.

Defensive Line Two: The Iron Will. An airtight last will and testament bequeathing everything else directly to me, with a “no contest” clause so brutal that any challenge would result in immediate and total disinheritance.

He wasn’t done. He reached back into the briefcase and pulled out one last item. A single, sealed envelope. Defensive Line Three: The Nuclear Option.

My name was written on the front in his precise handwriting. “That isn’t a love letter, Molly,” he said, his voice steady. “It’s an indictment.”

For years, every time his family had slighted me, Marcus had gone home and written it down. The date. The time. The exact words. He documented everything with the precision of a military after-action report. The time his mother “accidentally” gave away the cashmere scarf I’d knit for her to the housekeeper—in front of me. The Christmas his father toasted “to family” and deliberately skipped over me. The birthday dinner where Patricia seated me at the far end of the table, literally separated from the family.

The letter ended with one final, devastating paragraph: By treating my wife—a soldier who has sacrificed more for her country than you ever will for your family—as the enemy, you have forfeited your right to be called my family. You have shown me your true values, and I reject them. Therefore, you are to receive nothing from me but my contempt.

A tear slid down my cheek. He had seen every invisible wound, and he had turned them into a weapon to defend me.

“Charles Peyton has the original,” Marcus said, his eyes locking with mine. “His instructions are explicit. If my family makes a single hostile move against you, he is to deploy everything. He is to read that letter aloud to them in person.” He paused, his voice softening. “I am so sorry I’m leaving you with this fight, Major,” he said, using my rank with a new kind of respect. “But I know you. I need you to promise me. Promise me you’ll hold the line.”

In that moment, he was my commanding officer. “Yes, sir,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “I’ll hold the line.”

We had a plan. We thought we had time. Six weeks later, the word cancer entered our vocabulary. Eight weeks after that, he was gone.

Reinforcements

I stood at the end of the driveway the next morning, feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms crossed. A human barrier. My silence was a weapon, and it threw Gerald completely off balance as he tried to maneuver past me with a box of Marcus’s veterinary textbooks.

“What is it now?” Raymond barked from the porch, his face red with irritation. When he saw me blocking the path, he sneered. “I told you your time here is done. Leave before I have you removed for trespassing.”

Right as the word trespassing left his mouth, the deep, expensive purr of a German engine filled the air. A gleaming black BMW 7 Series glided to a stop directly behind the moving truck, boxing it in. The driver’s door opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a flawlessly tailored charcoal gray suit emerged.

This was Charles Peyton.

He walked with a calm, deliberate pace directly to Raymond, who was still standing on the porch trying to look intimidating. “Raymond Coleman?” Charles asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

“I am. Who are you?” Raymond puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim authority.

“My name is Charles Peyton,” he said, presenting a business card with the smooth precision of a gunslinger drawing a weapon. “I am the legal counsel for the estate of the late Marcus Coleman, and I am the personal attorney for my client.” He paused, turning his head slightly to nod at me with profound respect. “Major Molly Martin.” He said my rank like it was a royal title.

Raymond’s bravado began to crack, hairline fractures appearing in his facade.

Charles didn’t give him time to recover. His voice became as cold and hard as a judge’s gavel. “I’m here to inform you that you are currently engaged in illegal trespassing and the theft of private property belonging to my client. I am instructing you to cease all activity immediately. Furthermore, every single item that has been removed from this house is to be returned to its original position. Now.”

He took a step closer, and Raymond actually took a step back. “If my instructions are not followed to the letter within the next five minutes, my next call will be to the Charleston Chief of Police, who happens to be a very dear friend of mine, and all of you will be spending the night explaining yourselves in a downtown holding cell.”

The change was instantaneous. Raymond’s face went from ruddy anger to a pasty, slack-jawed white. Patricia appeared in the doorway, her perfect southern composure crumbling. Timothy and Gerald froze mid-step, boxes still in their arms.

They finally understood. They weren’t fighting a grieving widow anymore. They were fighting the law.

“Now that I have your attention,” Charles said, his voice cutting through their stunned silence like a razor, “I suggest we move this discussion inside.”

Inside, Charles placed his crocodile leather briefcase on the dining table—my dining table—and unlatched it with two sharp snaps that echoed like gunshots in the silent room. Raymond tried one last time to salvage control. “You have no right to be in this house,” he stammered.

“Mr. Coleman,” Charles said, his voice dangerously soft, “when my client is being illegally evicted from her own home, it ceases to be a family matter. It becomes a legal matter. And in this matter,” he paused, straightening to his full, imposing height, “I have every right to be here.”

He slid three separate deeds across the table, fanned out like playing cards in a winning hand. “Joint tenancy with right of survivorship. One second after Marcus Coleman drew his last breath, Major Martin became the sole and undisputed owner of this house, the veterinary clinic on King Street, and all jointly held investment accounts. Your actions today constitute illegal trespassing, attempted theft, and harassment.”

Raymond’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Patricia grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself.

“No,” Patricia finally stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, her carefully constructed southern belle persona crumbling. “Marcus would never do that to his own family. You’re lying.”

“Madam,” Charles said with a brutal lack of pity, “not only would your son do this, he anticipated this exact reaction.” He pulled out another document. “His will contains a particularly stringent ‘no contest’ clause. Anyone who challenges it is immediately and irrevocably cut off from any inheritance whatsoever, including the family trust established by Marcus’s grandfather.”

He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “Your son laid a trap, Mr. and Mrs. Coleman, and with your little performance this morning, you didn’t just walk into it. You sprinted.”

The color drained from their faces. They had been outmaneuvered, outsmarted, and legally disarmed. The righteous certainty they’d carried into my home that morning was gone, replaced by the dawning realization of total defeat.

“But Marcus knew,” Charles said, his voice dropping to something softer but no less powerful, “that legal documents might not be enough. He knew you wouldn’t understand the finality of what you’d lost. He knew a stronger blow was needed.” He reached into his briefcase one last time and pulled out the sealed envelope. My name was written on the front in Marcus’s handwriting. “Perhaps you should hear it from him.”

“What is that?” Patricia whispered, her voice trembling.

“This,” Charles said, carefully breaking the seal, “is your son’s final message to his family.”

He began to read, his voice becoming the voice of Marcus, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

“To my family. If you are hearing these words, it means I am no longer there to stand between my soldier and your cruelty. Let me be clear about something from the very beginning: Molly did not take me away from you. You pushed me away, inch by inch, with every cruel word, every dismissive glance, every calculated slight you aimed at the woman I love.

For eight years, you have looked at Molly, and you have seen nothing but a uniform. You saw a soldier, but you refused to see the woman. You saw duty, but you refused to see devotion. You saw something temporary, when she was the most permanent, the most real thing in my life.

Dad, you tried to reduce the most important relationship of my life to a business transaction. You cornered her at the country club and demanded she sign a prenuptial agreement that would have left her with nothing. You told me I was being ‘unwise.’ You were wrong. The unwisest thing I could have done was listen to you.

Mom, do you remember the Christmas of 2019? Molly spent three months knitting you a cashmere scarf. She learned how to knit just for that gift. And you took it, smiled your sweet smile, and gave it to Rosa, our housekeeper, right in front of her. You said it ‘wasn’t quite your style.’ A gesture of such casual cruelty it took my breath away.

Gerald, Timothy—you treated my home like a weekend crash pad and my wife like unpaid hotel staff. You never once thanked her for the meals she cooked, the space she gave you, the kindness she showed despite your indifference.“

Patricia let out a choked sob of pure, undiluted shame. Raymond stared at the table, his face ashen.

The letter continued, each word a mirror forcing them to see the ugliness of their own actions. The birthday dinner. The Christmas toast. The “accidental” exclusions. Marcus had documented it all with devastating precision.

Then, the tone of the letter shifted to one of profound love.

“You never understood. I loved her because she is a soldier. She taught me what real honor looks like. What real courage is. It’s not just the medals on her chest or the wars she fought overseas. It’s the way she held her head high at your table when you made her feel small. It’s the way she smiled at your cruelty and responded with grace. It’s the way she loved me, completely and without reservation, even when loving me meant enduring you.

Molly was my moral compass. She was the best part of me. She made me a better man, not because she asked me to change, but because she inspired me to be worthy of her. This house was our fortress. It was where she felt safe after deployments. It was where we built our life, brick by brick, meal by meal, quiet Sunday morning by quiet Sunday morning. And you do not take a fortress from a soldier. Not on my watch. Not ever.“

Tears rolled silently down my cheeks—not of sadness, but of pride, of being seen, of being loved so completely that even death couldn’t silence that love.

Charles took a deep breath before reading the final, devastating paragraph. He looked up first, making eye contact with each of them, before delivering the final, crushing blow.

“My true legacy is not in my assets or in the Coleman name. My true legacy is the love I have for this woman and the life we built together. I leave her everything—not as revenge against you, but as the final act of protection I can offer her. She has fought for her country. Now my estate will fight for her. Consider this my last order to you.”

He read the last sentence slowly, not as a request, but as a direct, unyielding order from their son.

“Now, get out of her house.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Patricia was openly weeping. Raymond looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. Gerald and Timothy couldn’t even meet my eyes.

The game was over. They had lost. And they knew it.

What followed was the most surreal and satisfying theater I have ever witnessed. Under Charles’s watchful gaze and explicit instructions, Gerald and Timothy, grunting and sweating in the Charleston heat, hauled every single piece of furniture back into the house. My grandmother’s armchair. The boxes of books. The side tables. The wedding photos Patricia had thrown away were retrieved from the trash and returned to the mantle—with my picture still in the frame.

Gerald had to climb back up on a ladder and rehang my medals on the wall, his hands shaking as he drove each nail back into the plaster. It was more than a return of property. It was justice.

When it was done, Charles turned to them one final time. “You are no longer welcome on this property. Any future contact with Major Martin will be considered harassment and will be met with legal action. Do I make myself clear?”

Raymond, broken and defeated, could only nod. Patricia gathered what remained of her dignity and walked to the door. She paused, turned back to me, and for just a moment, I saw something almost human in her eyes. Regret, perhaps. Or just the recognition of her own cruelty reflected back at her.

“He loved you very much,” she whispered, her voice raw.

“Yes,” I replied simply. “He did.”

They left. The movers left. Charles gathered his documents, closed his briefcase, and turned to me. “Major Martin,” he said, extending his hand. “It was an honor to serve.”

I shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, Mr. Peyton. For everything.”

He smiled—a real smile, warm and genuine. “Your husband was one of the finest men I’ve ever known. He asked me to give you this when it was all over.” He handed me a smaller envelope, this one unsealed.

Inside was a short note in Marcus’s handwriting: Mission accomplished, Major. Stand down. Rest. You’ve earned it.

Epilogue: The Lighthouse

News in Charleston travels faster than a summer thunderstorm. The story of how the proud Coleman family had been so spectacularly defeated by a grieving widow and a brilliantly executed legal strategy became the scandal of the season. Their carefully constructed Southern dynasty, built on old money and older arrogance, crumbled into dust.

A week later, a letter arrived at my door. It was from Raymond, full of excuses and veiled threats disguised as legal concerns. Enclosed was a cashier’s check for $100,000—blood money, an attempt to buy my silence or my forgiveness, I wasn’t sure which.

I didn’t cash it. I took out a lighter, held the corner of the check to the flame, and watched it curl into blackened ash. I scooped the ashes into the envelope and mailed it back to him. No note. No explanation. The message was clear. We were done.

That night, for the first time since Marcus died, the house was truly quiet. Not the oppressive silence of grief, but a deep, peaceful stillness. I walked through each room, touching the furniture that had been taken and returned, running my fingers over the medals that had been torn down and rehung. Everything was back in its place.

The mission was accomplished. Marcus had protected me even from beyond the grave. But the question remained: what does a soldier do when the war is over?

The answer began with a simple decision: I would not sell the clinic. Marcus had built it from the ground up, starting with nothing but a dream and a small business loan. It was his heart’s work. Selling it to the highest bidder—especially to someone Gerald had handpicked—would be a betrayal of everything he’d fought to protect.

Instead, I renamed it. The Marcus Coleman Memorial Animal Hospital. I hired a new veterinarian, a young woman fresh out of school with more passion than experience, and I started spending my Saturdays there. Not as the owner overseeing operations from a distance, but as a volunteer, doing the unglamorous work: cleaning kennels, walking dogs, holding frightened cats during their examinations.

And slowly, something unexpected happened. Because of my uniform, because of the story that had spread through Charleston, other military families started coming in. They came with their elderly dogs and their rescue cats, and they came with their stories. Deployment stress. PTSD. The struggle of reintegration. The clinic became an unofficial sanctuary, a place of healing not just for animals, but for people, too.

Six months later, I launched The Marcus Martin Companion Fund, a nonprofit providing free veterinary care to the pets of active-duty service members and veterans. The first donation came from an unexpected source: Charles Peyton. The second came from a retired Marine who’d heard my story on the local news. Within a year, we’d helped over two hundred families.

His legacy would live on, not in a name on a building or a trust fund for future generations of Colemans. His legacy would live in action, in service, in the kind of quiet, unglamorous love that asks for nothing in return.

One evening, while organizing his old desk at the clinic, I found another letter. It had been hidden in a false bottom of one of the drawers, sealed in plastic and addressed simply: To Molly, My Soldier.

My hands shook as I opened it.

My dearest Molly,

If you’re reading this, it means two things: first, that I’m gone, and second, that you won. Charles followed the plan. You held the line. I’m so proud of you. But now comes the hard part.

Winning the battle isn’t the end of the mission. It’s the beginning of the next one. Your new mission, Major, is to live. Not just to survive, not just to endure, but to truly, deeply live. Live a life that is full and joyful and loud. Fall in love again if you can. Laugh until your sides hurt. Take that trip to Ireland we always talked about. Eat dessert first. Break the rules.

I know you, Molly. I know you’ll want to turn our house into a shrine, to preserve everything exactly as it was, as if keeping it frozen in time will somehow keep me close. Don’t. Change the paint colors I chose. Rearrange the furniture. Plant a garden in the backyard even though I always said the soil was too sandy. Make it yours.

Our house was our fortress. It protected us from the world, from my family, from everything that tried to diminish what we had. But now I need you to turn that fortress into a lighthouse. Let it be a beacon of strength and hope for others who are fighting their own battles. Let it be a place where healing happens.

You taught me that honor isn’t about medals or rank. It’s about how you treat people when no one’s watching. It’s about standing up when it’s easier to sit down. It’s about loving fiercely and without reservation, even—especially—when that love comes with a cost.

Hold the line, my soldier. And then build something beautiful on it.

Forever yours, Marcus

I read the letter three times, tears streaming down my face. Not tears of grief, but of gratitude. For eight years of love. For the fortress he’d built around me. For seeing me—really seeing me—when no one else did.

The story ends here, but my life did not. It continues this morning, with the Charleston sun rising over the harbor, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. I’m standing on the porch of my house—my fortress, my lighthouse—ready for my morning run. The house stands behind me, quiet and strong, full of memories but no longer trapped in them.

On the mantle, our wedding photo sits in its place of honor. My picture is back in the frame where it belongs, and I’ve added a new frame beside it: Marcus in his white coat at the clinic, laughing at something off-camera, surrounded by dogs.

I held the line. I completed the mission. And now, every single day, a new mission begins: to live, to heal, to serve, and to pass on a legacy not of bloodlines or property or old southern dynasties, but of honor, service, and a love strong enough to build fortresses and light the way home.

I touch the medal on my chest—not a military decoration, but Marcus’s wedding ring, which I wear on a chain. “Thank you,” I whisper to the morning air. “Mission accomplished, my love.”

And then I run. Not away from anything, but toward everything. Toward life. Toward hope. Toward whatever comes next.

Because that’s what soldiers do. We hold the line. And then we build something beautiful on it.