Silver wings were pinned over his chest.
Across the bottom was a date from 34 years earlier.
I stared at him. “You were a pilot.”
Dad sat down.
“Yes.”
“Why did you lie to us?”
“I didn’t want that day following me home.”
“What day?”
Grant looked at Dad. “May I?”
Dad didn’t answer.
Grant took the silence as permission. “Your father was a captain here. He also trained pilots.”
Dad stared at the floor.
Grant continued.
“Thirty-four years ago, there was a serious mechanical failure during one of his flights.”
My stomach tightened.
Dad spoke immediately.
“Don’t turn it into something dramatic.”
Grant nodded.
“Fair enough.”
Then he looked at me.
“The crew had very little time to make decisions during the approach. Your father stayed at the controls and brought the aircraft back safely, with every passenger and crew member aboard.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
Dad’s fingers tightened around his cane.
“The crew brought it back.”
Grant looked at him.
“That’s exactly why people remember you.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Then why did you stop flying?”
“I didn’t stop that day.”
Dad lifted his head.
“I stayed long enough to help review what happened. A maintenance issue had been missed, and procedures needed changing.”
