I said nothing.
He rubbed one hand over his forehead.
“Your mother tried to tell me I was wrong.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“What did she say?”
Dad looked toward my pocket, where the outline of the small anchor pin was barely visible beneath the fabric.
“She said you never asked us to understand the acronyms. You only asked us to show up.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded exactly like her.
Dad’s voice roughened.
“I told her showing up to every ceremony was indulgent.”
“She went anyway.”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“I am sorry.”
It was not enough.
It was also the first time he had said it.
I nodded once.
“I need time.”
“I know.”
“No, Dad. I mean it. You do not get to hear one report, feel terrible, and then act like we are repaired.”
His face tightened, but he did not argue.
“All right.”
That mattered.
The next day, he asked if I would have coffee with him before he flew home.
I agreed to thirty minutes.
We sat outside a small place near the water. Dad ordered black coffee. I ordered tea. For ten minutes, neither of us touched the real subject.
Then he asked about Mom’s anchor pin.
I took it from my pocket and placed it on the table.
“She left it for me.”
