“She usually is.”
He hesitated. “I hope you didn’t mind me saying something.”
“I minded the attention,” I admitted. “Not the truth.”
When he left to call his wife, my mother entered.
She had a small box in her hands.
Inside was the navy silk blouse I’d worn years earlier to a family dinner, before the argument that ended with my duffel bag on the porch. I recognized a tiny pearl button I’d sewn back on myself.
“I found it after you left,” she said. “I meant to return it.”
“You kept it eight years?”
“I kept thinking there would be a next visit.”
I sat down.
“Mom, I needed you to defend me tonight.”
“I know.”
“Not because I’m a captain. Because I’m your daughter.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. She put the box on the table instead of making me hold it.
“You’re right. I kept asking you to be patient because it was easier than asking them to be decent. I’m sorry.”
For the first time that night, an apology sounded like the beginning of something rather than an attempt to close a subject.
I didn’t promise everything would be different. She didn’t ask me to.
A knock came at the door.
My father stood in the hallway, alone.
He looked smaller without an audience.
“May I come in?”
I nodded toward the opposite chair.
He sat carefully. For several moments, he studied his hands.
“I was wrong about your career.”
“Yes.”
“And about tonight.”
“Yes.”
He swallowed. “Vanessa will apologize.”
“That is her decision. Mine is whether to accept it.”
He started to argue, caught himself, and looked away.
