He helped me apply to universities, obtain ROTC scholarships, and drove me to campus visits. But now there was a distance, a formality.
I think part of him wanted me to get involved, to follow his example, to understand military service the way he understood it — starting from the bottom, step by step, rank by rank.
But I didn’t do it.
I went to university. I studied management. I joined the ROTC. There I learned military techniques, leadership theories, and military history. And when I was commissioned at twenty-three, I became a second lieutenant (O-1).
Technically, I was his direct superior.
He congratulated me. He shook my hand. He took pictures. But something changed that day. Something that neither of us could name.
Over the following years, I steadily climbed the ranks. From officer 2nd class to officer 2nd class, then to officer 3rd class. Captain at twenty-eight. Each promotion was hard-won. I didn’t rest on my laurels. I worked long hours, accepted difficult missions, and was deployed to places I didn’t even know.
But my father stopped asking me questions about my career.
At first, I thought it was a matter of confidentiality. I had been assigned to operations that I couldn’t discuss in detail. I assumed he respected that boundary.
But even when I tried to share the unclassified aspects — the leadership challenges, the lessons learned, the small victories — he dodged the question.
« It looks like you’re doing well, » he said. « You’ve forged your own path now. I’m sure you’ll find the solution. »
She offered her support superficially, but without truly getting involved. She wasn’t interested.
I started calling him less often. Not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. It was tiring to offer him parts of my life and be politely refused.
When I obtained my specialist degree at thirty-three, I had stopped expecting him to ask me.
I still called him to let him know. Out of duty. Out of habit.
« That’s wonderful, Sonia, » he said. « Your mother would be proud. »
I thanked him. We talked about his garden. The conversation lasted seven minutes.
I hung up and sat in my empty apartment, staring at the golden oak leaves I had just pinned to my shoulders. I thought back on the years it had taken me to get here, the evaluations, the deployments, the sleepless nights and the early morning wake-ups, the decisions that had kept me awake, the airmen I had commanded, the operations I had coordinated, the trust I had earned.
And I thought of my father, of the way he explained to me how his ribbons worked, of the pride that shone through in his voice when he talked about his work.
That’s what I wanted. Not for validation. Just to build a connection.
But at some point, he stopped seeing me as a soldier. He saw me as his daughter. Still young, still building his life, even though I was thirty-three years old, even though I had been serving for more than ten years, even though I had a rank he had never reached.
I think that’s what he couldn’t accept. Not that I surpassed him, but that I did things differently.
I didn’t climb the ranks like him. I wasn’t a career officer for twenty years. I didn’t work in runway maintenance or do night shifts in the garage. I went to university. I was commissioned. I joined the navy as an officer.
For him, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t worse. But it wasn’t the same.
I understand. I really do.
But understanding did not lessen the pain.
I wanted him to see me not as a shortcut, not as someone who had avoided difficulties, but as someone who had chosen a different path and followed it brilliantly. I wanted him to ask me, « What does a student in a specialization do? » I wanted him to say, « Tell me about your mission. » I wanted him to look at my decorations the way I looked at his.
He didn’t do it.
And finally, I stopped waiting for him.
I built my career. I earned my security clearances. I took on more responsibility. I worked directly with senior officers. I coordinated high-level operations. I led briefings that influenced decisions whose consequences I would never see.
And I did everything without him noticing. Not that I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t put my life on hold any longer while waiting for him to understand.
So when he asked me to take him to the forbidden base, I said yes. Not to prove anything, but because maybe, just maybe, if he saw it with his own eyes, he would finally understand.
The return journey from the base that day took place in absolute silence.
My father was sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. His hands rested on his knees, his fingers relaxed but not loose. Every few minutes, he glanced at me as if he wanted to say something, then changed his mind.
I kept my eyes on the road. I didn’t fill the silence. I didn’t give him an easy opportunity to start a conversation. If he wanted to talk, he would have to start.
We were almost at his house when he finally spoke.
« You should have told me. »
I didn’t reply immediately. I left the words hanging, weighing their impact.
« What did I tell you? » I asked, in an even voice.
« Regarding your security clearance. Regarding what you actually do. »
I parked in his driveway and put the car in neutral. I turned towards him.
« I told you, » I replied.
He frowned.
« When? »
“Three years ago, when I received this assignment, I told you I would be joining the executive support department. I told you it required a thorough background check. I told you I would be working with senior management.”
« You said it was administrative work. »
“No,” I replied. “You said it was administrative work. I said I coordinated logistics for senior officers. You heard what you wanted to hear.”
He bristled.
« That’s not fair. »
« That’s correct. »
He looked away, his jaw clenched.
« I didn’t know that’s what it meant, » he said. He made a vague gesture, as if he couldn’t find the words. « The presidential seal. Priority authorization. The VIP lane. »
« Yankee White, » I said. « It’s called Yankee White clearance. It’s mandatory for anyone working in close proximity to the president, vice president, or their immediate support team. »
He blinked.
« Do you work with the president? » he asked.
« I work on the support team, » I said. « I don’t report directly to the President, but I coordinate operations for those who do. »
He stared at me as if I were a stranger.
« How long? »
« Two years in this position, » I said. « But I have high-level qualifications since I became captain. »
« And you never thought to mention it? » he asked.
I felt a slight surge of anger. Controlled.
« I mentioned it, » I said. « You didn’t ask any further questions. »
« Because I thought you couldn’t talk about it. »
« I couldn’t go into details, » I said. « But I could talk about the structure, the responsibility, its importance. You just never asked me. »
He breathed his last with a loud sound.
« Because you gave the impression of not wanting to talk about it. »
« I didn’t give any indication of that, » I said. « I answered your question. You simply stopped asking questions. »
He opened his mouth in protest, then stopped. His shoulders slumped.
« I didn’t know how to ask, » he said.
« Why not? » I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his hands. Rough hands, marked by years of maintenance work. Hands that had built, repaired, held things in place.
« Because you became something I didn’t understand, » he said softly.
The truth was there. The truth hidden beneath the veil.
« I am still your daughter, » I said.
« I know, » he said. « But you’re also a commander with a security clearance I’ve never heard of. You work in places I’ll never see, and I don’t know how to talk to you about it. »
« You talk to me the way you always have, » I said. « You ask questions. You listen. »
« It’s not that simple. »
« That’s indeed the case. »
He shook his head.
« You don’t understand. »
« Then explain it to me, » I said.
He looked up, and for the first time, I perceived a raw emotion in his gaze. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Something more akin to suffering.
« I spent 22 years earning my rank, » he said. « Every stripe, every promotion, every evaluation, I earned. I made sacrifices for it. And I was proud of it. »
« I know. »
« And then you were commissioned as an officer, » he said. « And suddenly, overnight, you were an officer. You were outranking me before you were even deployed. »
« It didn’t happen overnight, » I said softly. « I spent four years at university and training to become a reserve officer. I earned my officer’s commission. »
« I know you did it, » he said. « But it wasn’t the same. »
“No,” I agreed. “That wasn’t the case. But that doesn’t make it any less valid.”
He looked away again.
« I’m not saying it’s not valid, » he said.
« So, what do you say? » I asked.
He remained silent for a long time.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
« I mean, I didn’t know how to be proud of you without feeling like I was being left out, » he said.
Those words touched me more deeply than I would have thought. I knew he was having trouble accepting my rank. I knew he felt a kind of distance. But I hadn’t realized it was this profound.
« Dad, » I said cautiously, « my career is not in competition with yours. »
« I know it, rationally, » he said. « I know it. But we don’t always get that impression. »
« Why not? » I asked.
He rubbed his face.
« Because I look at you and I see everything I couldn’t be, » he said. « The education, the permissions, the access, the respect that comes with those oak leaves. »
« You commanded respect, » I said. « You were a sergeant major. That’s no small feat. »
« I know, » he said. « But it’s not the same as being an officer. It’s different. »
“Being different does not mean being inferior,” I said.
« You don’t understand, » he said, frustration returning to his voice. « You don’t know what it’s like to work your whole career and be told you’re not qualified to make certain decisions. To attend meetings and be interrupted because you’re a non-commissioned officer and not a commissioned officer. »
I didn’t interrupt him. I let him speak.
“I respected the officers,” he said. “I obeyed orders. I did my job. But there was always a line you shouldn’t cross. And you crossed it on day one, before you even participated in a deployment.”
« I understand that this may seem unfair, » I said.
« It’s not a question of fairness, » he said. « It’s a question of… I don’t know. Of pride and doubt, and the inability to reconcile the two. »
He looked at me, and now I understood. The father who raised me. The sergeant major who commanded airmen for over twenty years. And the man who couldn’t reconcile the two.
« I’m proud of you, » he said. « Really. But I’m also… I don’t know… embarrassed, perplexed. I see everything you’ve accomplished and I think I should have done more, been better. »
« You’ve done a lot, » I said.
« We don’t get that impression, » he said.
« It’s not my fault, » I said.
My words came out more harshly than I intended. He flinched.
I softened my tone.
« I don’t mean to be unkind, » I said. « But I need you to listen to me. I can’t carry your burden of regrets. I can’t downplay my achievements to reassure you. That’s not fair to me. »
He nodded slowly.
« I know, » he said.
