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“Besides,” Joy continued, “weren't you the hero in Africa? Didn't you save Kent's life and complete the mission under impossible circumstances?”

“We didn't save the hostage.”

“The hostage was already dead when you got there. You and Kent eliminated the terrorists and made it out alive when you both should have died. That's not failure, Graham. That's a miracle.”

I stared down at our joined hands. Her fingers were so small compared to mine, but her grip felt strong enough to anchor me.

“You've been beating yourself up for four years,” she said quietly. “Aren’t you done denying yourself your father’s love?”

God, she was right.

“Your father loves you. He's probably been waiting for you to call, wondering what he did wrong to make you shut him out.”

The thought of Dad sitting by the phone, wondering why his son had disappeared from his life, made my chest ache in a completely different way.

“What if he asks questions I can't answer?”

“Then you tell him some things are classified. He'll understand that.”

She was right. Dad had spent thirty years dealing with classified information. He'd never press for details I couldn't share.

“What if he's angry that I waited so long to call?”

“Then you apologize and tell him you love him.” Joy squeezed my hand. “Trust me on this one. Parents forgive their children for almost anything.”

We finished eating in silence, but the quiet felt different now. Charged with possibility instead of weighted with unspoken pain.

Joy yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I'm kind of tired. I still have a couple more chapters in that book I was reading.”

“Go snuggle up in bed for a while. I'll clean up.”

She stood and stretched, then leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Think about what I said.”

“I will.”

I watched her walk toward the bedroom, admiring the way her jeans hugged her hips. Even exhausted, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

The dishes took ten minutes to wash and put away. I'd always been efficient in the kitchen, a habit leftover from military life where everything had to be clean and squared away. But tonight, I lingered over each plate and bowl, trying to work up the courage for what I knew I had to do.

Finally, I couldn't put it off any longer.

I settled into my recliner and pulled out my phone. Dad's number was still in my contacts, still marked as “Dad” with the same photo I'd taken of him in his dress blues at my graduation from BUD/S. He'd been so proud that day. Proud and worried and trying not to show either emotion.

My finger hovered over the call button.

Four years. Four years of silence because I'd been too ashamed to face the man who'd taught me everything about honor and duty and taking care of the people under my command.

I hit call before I could change my mind.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Graham?”

Dad's voice sounded exactly the same. Strong and warm and slightly gravelly from years of shouting orders over jet engines.

“Hey, Dad.”

The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.