Inside was a wooden stand he had made himself.
It was designed to hold Granddad’s compass.
A tiny brass plate beneath it read:
KNOW WHY.
I looked at him.
“That’s all?”
He frowned.
“What did you expect?”
“Something about Colonel Claire Bennett.”
He looked offended.
“I’ve grown.”
Madison nearly choked on her drink.
Later, after everyone had gone to bed, Dad and I remained in the kitchen.
Snow had begun falling outside.
He poured coffee.
I made tea.
Some traditions could remain separate.
“I keep thinking about that gala,” he said.
“So do I.”
“I was awful to you before we went in.”
“You were.”
He winced.
“You could occasionally make forgiveness more comfortable.”
“I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
He smiled.
Then he became serious.
“I thought the worst part was everyone in that room realizing I didn’t know who my own daughter was.”
