My father’s eyes widened. “Court-martial? Evelyn, no. That cannot happen. The newspapers in Boston would cover it.”

“Then you should prepare for the articles,” I said.

“Please,” he said.

It was the first time in my life I had heard him use that word with me.

It felt empty.

“I have a flight to catch,” I said.

“Evelyn, wait,” he said, his hand reaching out again. “We can go to dinner. Just you and me. Let’s talk about this like adults. I want to hear about your career. Truly. I want to understand.”

I looked at his cashmere coat, his polished shoes, and his expensive car.

I remembered the graduation from the Naval Academy where my seat had been empty.

I remembered the promotion to captain where the only card I received was from my landlord.

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked, his old temper flared for a brief second before he suppressed it. “I am your father.”

“You were a parent,” I said. “But we have no relationship. I am removing myself from your life, and I am removing you from mine.”