“I know.”
The fact that he said it without accusation made my throat tighten.
He pulled back. “Dad made us both ridiculous, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He spent my whole life using my construction work to make your Navy work smaller. So every time you got promoted, I felt like I was supposed to defend myself for not being you.”
I stared at him.
“I thought you liked it.”
“I liked Dad being proud of me. I hated what he made it mean.”
I looked toward the last row.
Frank Mercer had finally stood. He was talking to Aaron Cole.
Not talking, exactly.
Listening.
Cole said something. Dad nodded. Then Dad covered his face with one hand.
I turned away.
Evan saw.
“You don’t have to rescue him from this too,” he said.
I almost laughed at the choice of words.
“No. I don’t.”
At the reception, Dad remained near the wall until most of the room had cleared. He did not introduce himself to anyone. He did not tell people he was my father. He did not use the new information as a shortcut into importance.
When he finally approached, he held his phone in one hand.
“I deleted the message,” he said.
“That doesn’t delete sending it.”
“I know.”
He looked down.
For thirty-one years, Dad had always known what to say when he believed he was right. Seeing him without words felt almost unnatural.
“I thought,” he began, then stopped.
I waited.
“I thought every time you refused to explain, you were being dramatic.”
“I know.”
“I thought the Navy gave you titles and ceremonies and you liked making the rest of us guess.”
