The words landed on the floor between us, hollow and dead. Twenty years ago I’d have traded years of my life to hear them. Now they were just a cheap negotiation tactic.

“You are proud of the uniform,” I said, steady and clear. “Not the person standing inside it.”

His mouth opened to argue, but I didn’t let him. “You’re proud right now because the room gave me a standing ovation. Because a title was spoken that you respect.

Because my success can be turned to reflect glory back onto you. But you were never proud when it cost you anything.”

Alden seemed to physically shrink, though his posture stayed rigid.

I stepped closer — not aggressively, just close enough that he couldn’t escape the words. “You weren’t proud of me when I slept on benches in bus stations.