He looked toward us.
Our eyes met.
For once, I didn’t look away.
Neither did he.
There was no apology in his face.
Not yet.
Maybe there never would be.
But there was something he had never allowed himself to show me before.
The knowledge that he had lost.
Not to the Air Force.
Not to my career.
Not to some imaginary rebellion.
To his own choices.
I didn’t go back inside to comfort him.
That was no longer my job.
Clare squeezed my hand.
“You’re coming for Thanksgiving.”
“That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
“You know I’m technically very difficult to order around.”
She smiled.
“Major General?”
“Yes?”
“Please come home.”
The word caught between my ribs.
Home.
Not Dad’s house.
Not the place with changed locks.
Not the family business.
Her.
I looked down at Mom’s photograph.
Two sisters sitting side by side, knees touching, laughing at something the camera had failed to capture.
