“Don’t come this year.” The words hung in the air, colder than the December wind howling outside my office window.

After the ceremony, the reception hall was a blur of handshakes, photos, and well-wishes.

I spent most of my time talking to Walt and his family. The old trucker was recovering well, and watching him play with his granddaughter made every icy, terrifying second of that rescue worth it.

As the crowd began to thin out, I walked toward the exit, my dress shoes clicking against the marble floor.

“Thomas.”

I stopped. My father was standing near the coat check, holding his hat.

“Dad.”

“You spoke beautifully,” he said, his voice quiet, almost fragile.

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between us. There were a million things he wanted to say, a million apologies he wanted to offer, but we both knew that words couldn't fix the past.

“I’m proud of you, son,” he finally whispered.

I looked at him. I believed him. But I also knew that his pride came too late to change anything between us.

“Take care of yourself, Dad,” I said gently.

I didn't offer a hug. I didn't offer a promise to call. I just offered a nod of peace.

I walked out of the capitol building and into the bright Colorado afternoon. Sergeant Alvarez was waiting by the command vehicle, tossing the keys in her hand.