As a reminder not to ration pride.
The weeks after the change of command were busy. I took over the new role. Dad went home. We spoke only twice.
Then Aaron Cole emailed me.
He asked whether I would object to him contacting my father.
I called instead.
“Why?”
Cole was quiet for a moment.
“Because he asked me what you were like that night.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I would not tell him anything still restricted. I told him I could talk about what fear looks like when people are waiting for a decision.”
“And?”
“I told him your voice never changed.”
I looked out my office window.
Cole continued. “He asked if I thought you were afraid.”
“What did you say?”
“I said of course you were. Courage that requires no fear is just lack of information.”
I laughed.
“That sounds like you.”
“He cried.”
I did not answer.
Cole lowered his voice. “Admiral, I think he is trying.”
“I know.”
Trying did not equal forgiven.
But I had learned in command that effort mattered most when it could be observed over time.
Dad began with small things.
Before any of those small things became visible, he did something more difficult. He asked Evan to drive him to the cemetery where Mom was buried. Evan told me later that Dad stood beside the stone for almost an hour without speaking. Then he took out his phone and read the message he had sent me in Coronado aloud.
Nobody cares about your Navy career.
Hearing it beside Mom’s grave apparently changed the sentence for him. It was no longer a private jab he could dismiss as sarcasm. It sounded like something he would never have wanted her to hear him say.
Evan did not comfort him.
