My father stood halfway out of his chair.
His hands gripped the edge of the dining table.
His knuckles turned completely white.
“A… a Silver Star?” he stammered.
His eyes darted from Admiral Bowmont to me.
“Harold, there must be a mistake.”
“She’s in administration.”
“She told us she worked at a desk in D.C.!”
Admiral Bowmont didn’t smile.
He slowly shook his head, looking at my father with deep disappointment.
“Vincent,” Bowmont said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin calm.
“She works at a desk now because I personally recruited her to lead tactical doctrine for Fleet Forces Command.”
“She holds that post because she is one of the finest surface warfare officers this Navy has produced in twenty years.”
My mother’s hand flew to her mouth.
A soft tear trickled down her cheek.
Bradley looked at me, his jaw completely dropped.
His wife, Whitney, sat frozen beside him, her fork suspended in mid-air.
“Sloan…” Dad choked out, shifting his gaze toward me.
“Why… why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Why would you keep something like that from your own family?”
I picked up my cloth napkin and carefully folded it on the table.
“Because, Dad,” I said quietly.
Every word cut through the silent room like a blade.
“If I had told you I took command, you would have asked who pulled strings for me.”
“If I told you I went to sea, you would have said I belonged in supply.”
“And if I told you about the Strait…”
I looked him dead in the eye.
“You would have found a way to tell me I did it wrong.”
My father flinched as if I had physically struck him.