“No.”
“Did you contact the Navy?”
“No.”
“Did you ask Grant for a power of attorney signed by your daughter?”
“No.”
“Did you receive notices showing that Lillian Moore was still active-duty Navy?”
“I saw some things that raised questions.”
“What did you do with those questions?”
He swallowed.
“Nothing.”
Rachel stepped closer.
“Why?”
My father looked at me.
For once, the whole courtroom saw him searching for an answer that did not exist.
“Because I wanted Grant to be telling the truth.”
Rachel nodded.
“Even if that meant your daughter was not?”
His mouth trembled.
“Yes.”
That one word closed the door on my childhood.
Not gently.
But finally.
Grant did not testify.
His attorney would have had to lock him in a chair to keep him off the stand, but after my mother’s recording, even Grant understood arrogance had limits.
The jury deliberated for twelve hours.
During that time, I sat in a courthouse waiting room with Rachel, two agents, and a vending machine that refused to accept dollar bills.
My mother came to the doorway once.
She did not enter.
“May I sit out here?” she asked.
Rachel looked at me.
My answer mattered.
That alone felt strange.
I nodded.
My mother sat three chairs away.
Not close.
Not far.
For twenty minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “Your grandfather would have been proud of you.”
I looked at the floor.
“He was proud while he was alive.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He was.”
“I wish you had been.”
She took that hit without defense.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then she said, “I found your medals online after you testified.”
My mouth tightened.
“You Googled me?”
She nodded.
“I saw the ceremony photos. The promotion notice. An article from three years ago.”
The laugh that came out of me was small and bitter.
“So the internet believed me before my parents did.”
She closed her eyes.
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