“I did.”
“You said half the defense community would be here.”
“I was rounding down.”
Then his expression changed.
“Claire, that letter was supposed to reach you eight months ago.”
I turned toward him.
“What?”
“It was delayed.”
“By whom?”
He glanced across the ballroom.
Toward my father.
Suddenly, the envelope felt heavier.
Jack explained that during planning for my retirement honors, my father had been contacted as a family liaison. After that, details had changed. The guest list. The timing. Whether the letter would be presented publicly or sent privately.
And whether I had supposedly requested no ceremony.
“I made no such request,” I said.
“I know,” Jack replied.
Before I could answer, Melanie asked to speak with me privately. In the hallway, she admitted she knew Dad had told me not to wear my uniform.
“I asked him not to interfere,” she said. “I wanted you here as yourself.”
Then she took my hand.
“We need to open that envelope,” she said. “But not alone.”
