Just truth, ordinary and visible.
Madison came.
So did my parents.
They sat in the second row, not because I arranged it, but because they arrived early enough to choose seats like everyone else.
My mother wore the same pearl earrings she had worn the year before. This time, when she saw me, she did not look afraid of what my presence might disturb.
She looked proud.
My father stood when I walked past.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Madison lifted one hand in a small wave.
I gave the smallest nod back.
That was where we were.
Small waves.
Small nods.
Small honest steps over ground that had once split open beneath us.
After the ceremony, a young ensign approached me.
She looked nervous, her cover tucked under one arm.
“Captain Monroe?”
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to say,” she began, then stopped and straightened. “I read your remarks from the leadership review last month. The part about documentation and accountability.”
