Beyond the black iron fence, the traffic on M Street was bumper-to-bumper.

I saw my father standing near the visitor credentials office.

He was wearing his charcoal cashmere overcoat, the one he wore to board meetings in Boston.

His gray hair was perfectly parted, but his collar was slightly crooked.

He was pacing, his leather shoes clicking on the pavement.

Beside him, parked illegally in the red zone, was his silver Mercedes.

A base police officer was already walking toward the vehicle with a ticket book.

My father saw me approaching and took three quick steps forward.

Then, he stopped.

His eyes traveled down the front of my service dress blue jacket.

He stared at the broad gold stripe and the three narrower stripes above it on my sleeve.

He looked at the ribbon rack on my chest.

He looked at the gold star pinned above my ribbons.

The irritation on his face froze, replaced by a blank, confused stare.

“Evelyn?” he said.

His voice was lower than usual, stripped of its typical authority.

“Hello, Father,” I said.

I stopped five feet away from him, keeping my hands at my sides.