She hates that it's true. She hates that it's right. She hates knowing that there will come a day when she won't have to make a choice because it will have been made for her.

She's glad, in a tiny piece of herself, that she'll be prepared for it.

There's the faintest stutter of her hand as she moves to follow the directive. The motion is otherwise clean, the follow-through clean of hesitation.