This was not one of them.
Dad was not asking me to pretend.
He was simply trying to become someone different going forward.
“I’ll send you one,” I said.
His shoulders loosened.
“Thank you.”
Then I added, “But not the official command photo.”
“Why not?”
“I look terrifying.”
“You always look terrifying.”
“Goodbye, Dad.”
He laughed.
I drove back to Washington with my grandfather’s compass on the passenger seat.
Monday morning, I arrived at work before seven.
At nine, General Harrington called.
He was technically no longer in my direct chain of command, which allowed him to dispense advice with the enthusiasm of a man who would not have to complete any associated paperwork.
“You’re taking the assignment,” he said.
It was not a question.
“I haven’t decided.”
Silence.
Then, “Really?”
“Surprising?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“I’ve known you twelve years.
You treat difficult assignments like other people treat restaurant reservations.”
I laughed.
He continued.
“What changed?”
I looked at the compass beside my computer.
“Someone asked whether I actually wanted it.”
Another pause.
“That can be an inconvenient question.”
“Extremely.”
“Do you?”
“The work matters.”
“That was also not the question.”
Apparently everyone in my life had joined the same conspiracy.
I leaned back.
“I don’t know if I want the life around the work.”
“That’s a better answer.”
Harrington had spent nearly four decades in uniform.
He understood what I meant.
“There’s something younger officers rarely believe,” he said.
“A career can be honorable without consuming every available piece of you.”
I looked through the window.
People hurried between buildings carrying folders and coffee.
“What if turning it down closes a door?”
“It might.”
He did not soften it.
“That’s the difficulty of real choices, Claire.
Choosing something usually means not choosing something else.”
I appreciated that answer.
No slogans.
No promise that everything would work perfectly.
Before we ended the call, he said, “For what it’s worth, the Army already knows what you can do.”
That sentence stayed with me.
By Wednesday, I had made my decision.
