My Father Smirked and Told the Wedding Guests

A spoon rattled off a plate.

General Foster, from ten feet away, saw the folder in my hand and rose halfway from his chair.

“You all right, Major?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you need a room?”

He didn’t mean a physical room.

He meant privacy, witnesses, a controlled space. Men at his level learn to ask that way.

“No, sir,” I said. “I think I’d rather know now.”

He sat continue reading …