“I did not know they had seated you in the back.”
“That makes two of us.”
His jaw tightened.
“Do you want me to address it?”
“No, sir.”
He waited.
“I need to address it.”
He nodded. “Good answer.”
Then he left me alone.
Mia came through the door next.
For once, there was no photographer behind her.
She folded her arms.
“You could have told us.”
I looked at her.
“That is what you want to say first?”
Her face flushed.
“I mean the rank. The award. General Hale.”
“You knew I was in the Army.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No. It is not. But you did not need a four-star general to know I deserved a place in a family photograph.”
She looked away.
I continued.
“You smiled when Mom told me to watch from the back.”
“I didn’t know this was happening.”
“That is not relevant.”
She turned toward me. “Of course it is relevant. If I had known—”
“If you had known I was important enough?”
The question stopped her.
For years, Mia had been the easy daughter to celebrate. Her work was visible, local, photographable. She stood beside donors and cut ribbons. I missed birthdays and gave vague answers about travel.
None of that required her to humiliate me.
