I nodded. He gestured for us to pass without hesitation.
It was only at that moment that my father spoke.
« Why didn’t you tell me? » Her voice was low. Neither angry nor hurt. Something in between.
I continued walking at a steady pace, my eyes fixed straight ahead.
« You never asked the question. »
The silence that followed was heavier than anything he could have said.
We arrived at the parking lot near the event venue. I stopped and turned to him. His expression was unreadable. Shock, perhaps. Confusion. Or something else he didn’t want to name.
« I don’t understand, » he finally said.
« I know. »
« You said you were working on the base. You never said… »
« I told you I was assigned to management support operations, » I said calmly. « I told you I underwent a thorough security clearance. I told you I worked directly with senior management. »
He blinked.
« You said you were doing administrative work. »
« I said I was coordinating logistics for high-ranking officers. That’s not the same thing. »
He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He glanced down at his retirement ID card, which he still held in his hand. E-8. Staff Sergeant. A rank he had spent twenty years working towards.
And I was a commander (O-4) with a security clearance that allowed me access to rooms he would never see.
« I was thinking… » His voice trailed off.
« What did you think? » I asked, not maliciously, but directly.
He did not reply.
I softened my tone, slightly.
“Dad, I’ve been in the army for twelve years. I’ve held four different ranks. I’ve been deployed three times. I’ve briefed colonels and generals. I’ve managed classified operations you’ll never hear about. And all that time, you never once asked me what I actually did.”
« You couldn’t talk about it, » he said defensively. « You always said it was classified. »
« Partly yes, partly no. But anyway, you stopped asking the question. »
His jaw clenches.
« I didn’t mean to be indiscreet. »
« It’s not indiscreet to be interested in one’s daughter’s career. »
He turned his gaze towards the runway in the distance. The planes taxiing on the ground, the steady hum of the engines, the life he had known.
« I was proud of what I did, » he said calmly. « Twenty-two years. I earned my stripes. I commanded good airmen. I did my job well. »
« I know you did it. »
« And then you were appointed. And suddenly, you were above me. Overnight. »
I let it sit for a moment.
« It didn’t happen overnight, » I said. « It took me four years of training and studies before I could even put on the uniform. »
« You know what I mean. »
Yes. I knew exactly what he meant.
He had spent twenty years climbing the ranks of non-commissioned officer. Each hard-won promotion, each meticulously reviewed evaluation, each leadership role a test of endurance and competence. And I, I had entered the officer corps at twenty-three, a university graduate and an officer.
It wasn’t the same path. It wasn’t the same sacrifice. But it wasn’t any less important either.
“Dad,” I said cautiously, “I respect everything you’ve done. I always have. But my career isn’t a reflection of yours. It’s separate. It’s mine.”
« I never said otherwise. »
« You didn’t have to. »
He flinched. Barely.
« You introduced me as just a civilian, » I continued. « You joked that I was doing paperwork. You told people I was still learning the ropes. You acted as if my rank didn’t exist. »
« I didn’t mean to say… »
« I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, » I said. « But you did. »
His words hit him hard. I could see it on his face.
He looked at me. He really looked at me for the first time in years. Not as his daughter, not as the child who knew her decorations by heart, but as Major Sonia Richard, O-4, Yankee White clearance, U.S. Air Force officer.
« I’m sorry, » he said.
It wasn’t enough. Not yet. But it was something.
« We should go to the ceremony, » I said.
He nodded.
We walked together in silence.
The event was official. Ceremonial attire, speeches, an honor guard, the presentation of the American flag. I found seats at the back. My father sat next to me, stiff and uncomfortable.
Halfway there, a lieutenant colonel approached.
« Major Richard, » she said, nodding at me.
Lieutenant-Colonel Mara Kim. My direct superior. She was calm, precise, the kind of officer who inspired respect without raising her voice.
Then she glanced at my father. « Is that your father? »
« Yes, ma’am. I am Thomas Richard, a retired sergeant major. »
« It’s an honor, Senior, » she said, extending her hand.
He shook his hand, clearly taken aback. « Thank you, ma’am. »
She turned towards me.
« I wanted to inform you that Colonel Mercer has specifically requested a meeting with you at the next briefing, » she said. « He is impressed with your work. »
« Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be ready. »
« I know you will do it. »
She gave my father one last nod, then walked away.
My father watched her leave.
« Who is it? » he asked.
« My superior, Lieutenant Colonel Kim. »
« Is she your responsibility? »
« No, » I replied. « I am under his orders. »
He has assimilated that.
« And what about Colonel Mercer? »
« Group Commander. O-6. »
His face paled slightly.
« Are you briefing the colonels? » he asked.
« Sometimes generals, » I said.
He didn’t reply. He remained seated there, absorbing the information, refocusing.
The ceremony ended. People gradually left. My father stood up slowly, still dazed.
Upon returning to the parking lot, he said, « I didn’t know. »
« I know. »
« I should have asked. »
« Yes. »
He stopped walking and turned towards me.
« I’m proud of you, » he said.
I wanted to believe him, but his words rang false. Reactionary.
« Thank you, » I said.
We arrived at his car. He unlocked it but didn’t get in. He stood there, keys in hand, looking at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.
« Sonia, » he said.
« Yeah? »
« Can we start again? »
I thought about it. Starting over as if nothing had happened, as if years of being laid off could be erased by good intentions.
« No, » I answered honestly. « But we can start from here. »
He nodded slowly.
« All right. »
« I have to go back to work, » I said.
« All right. »
I turned around to leave, then I stopped.
« Daddy? »
« Yeah? »
« Next time you introduce me, » I said, « use my rank. »
He swallowed with difficulty.
« I will. »
I left. I didn’t look back.
I grew up watching my father wear his uniform like armor. Pressed, immaculate, proud. He was a Master Sergeant. E-8. It wasn’t just a rank for him. It was an identity, the culmination of discipline, sacrifice, and time.
He joined young. At eighteen, right after high school. Without higher education, without a plan B, just the conviction that the air force would offer him structure, a purpose, a future.
And that’s what happened.
He worked for years maintaining the runways. Long days, grueling work, kerosene under his fingernails, grease stains on his uniform that never really came off. His advancement was slow. From runway mechanic to runway mechanic, and then to runway mechanic. Each promotion was recognition, proof that his hard work had paid off.
At the time of my birth, he was already a sergeant major (E-6). Respected, reliable, the kind of non-commissioned officer that young airmen admired.
I remember him coming home late, exhausted, but always stopping to check my homework, always asking me how my day had gone, always finding time even when he had almost none.
My mother often joked that he managed our house like an airport runway. Everything was planned, everything was maintained, everything was accounted for.
She wasn’t wrong.
He instilled discipline in me before I even knew the word. Routine, responsibility. How to make your bed perfectly. How to stand up straight. How to look your interlocutor in the eyes when you speak to them.
« Details matter, » he said. « In the Air Force, in life, details matter. »
I believed him.
When I was fourteen, he was promoted to sergeant major (E-8). It was a big event: a promotion ceremony, a cake in the break room, handshakes from the officers.
I saw him stand at attention while the commander read his citation. I saw him accept his new rank with quiet pride. No boasting, no grand speeches, just a firm handshake and a « thank you. »
Then he took me aside.
« You see that? » he said, pointing to the new stripes on his sleeve. « It’s twenty years of work. Every day, every decision, every time I chose to do what was right, even when it was difficult. »
« I see it, » I said.
« Good. Remember that. »
I did it.
My mother died a year later. Cancer. Quick and cruel.
Dad didn’t break down. He couldn’t. He had a job. He had a mission. He had me.
So he carried on. He was there. He played. He led. But something inside him hardened, as if he had repressed the part of himself that could afford to feel too much.
When I told him I wanted to join the air force, he didn’t try to dissuade me. He simply asked me:
« Non-commissioned officer or officer? »
« Officer, » I said. « I want a commission. »
He nodded slowly.
« Then you’ll need a degree first. »
« I know. »
