“He simply made his approval conditional on my obedience.”
That sounded familiar.
Dad knew it too.
He sat across from me.
For the first time all evening, he looked directly at my uniform without disdain.
“When you told me you wanted military medicine, I heard every fear I had spent twenty-five years avoiding.”
“So you tried to choose for me.”
“Yes.”
No explanation.
No argument.
Yes.
I had imagined this conversation so many times during lonely years that reality felt almost understated.
In my imagination, Dad always defended himself brilliantly or apologized perfectly.
Real people rarely did either.
He looked tired.
“I thought you would come back.”
“You told me the house wasn’t mine.”
“I thought you would make your point, wear the uniform for a year, and reconsider.”
“I wasn’t making a point.”
“I know.”
“When did you know?”
He looked down.
“That first Christmas.”
My heart shifted.
I remembered it vividly.
A military hospital in Germany.
Snow outside the windows.
A paper wreath taped above the nurses’ station.
I had worked fourteen hours and eaten vending-machine crackers for dinner because I volunteered to cover a physician who had children.
Grandpa called.
Dad did not.
“What happened that Christmas?”
“Henry showed me an email you sent him.”
I frowned.
“What email?”
“You wrote about your first emergency surgery.”
I remembered.
A young service member with internal bleeding.
