“Of course,” he said. “I’m just being realistic. Old-fashioned, maybe.”
That phrase again. She’d used it twice on the phone like a talisman against criticism. He’s old-fashioned. He’s from a different generation. He means well.
I excused myself early, claiming exhaustion. It wasn’t entirely untrue. As I unpacked in my childhood bedroom, still decorated with my Academy photos and a faded poster of USS Enterprise, I heard them in the kitchen. His voice carried easily through the old walls.
“She’s a little defensive.”
“She’s just tired, Mark. I’m just saying there’s a way to speak to people respectfully.”
“She was respectful.”
“If you say so.”
The conversation ended there, but the tone lingered.
I stood in my room looking at a photograph from my promotion in 2006. My mother beside me, beaming. Captain Samantha Timothy. That was three ranks ago.
The next morning, I found him in the kitchen before dawn. He startled when I entered, then recovered with a curt nod.
“You’re up early. Old habits, right? Well, coffee’s there.”
He gestured vaguely toward the pot as if granting permission in someone else’s house.
I poured a cup and sat at the table with my tablet, reviewing messages from my chief of staff. Captain Ruiz had flagged three items needing attention before Monday.
Mark moved through the kitchen with purposeful noise, opening cabinets firmly, setting dishes down with emphasis. When I didn’t react, he spoke.
“Your mother mentioned you’re only here two days.”
“Three, actually. I leave Sunday.”
“Short visit.”
“It’s what I could manage.”
“Must be hard on her. You being gone so much.”
I looked up. His expression was neutral. But the implication wasn’t.
“We manage. We always have.”
“Still, she’s not getting any younger. Good that she has someone around more regularly now.”
The claim of territory was subtle, but unmistakable. He’d been in her life four months. I’d been her daughter for forty-nine years, but he was here, present, and I was the one who left.
“She’s lucky to have you,” I said carefully.
He smiled.
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