Victor was wearing a suit, but like the last time we came to D.C., he decided not to pair it with a tie. So his dragon chest tattoo peeked out, along with a new skull tattoo on the back of his left hand. It glared below his matching wedding ring.

He did not look at all like someone who would be invited to a ceremony honoring international law enforcement. Quite the opposite. He belonged in the collection of mugshots that would surely run before the Attorney General gave my dad his award.

Victor went out of his way not to let anyone take his picture. But he didn’t have to be a known criminal element for people to sense his danger.

No one else came up to congratulate my dad. In fact, everyone stared and gave us a wide berth as we made our way across the room, which made the journey feel excruciating and long.

Yet, it was even worse when we reached a table near the stage with a placard bearing my father’s name in neat cursive letters.

Dad didn’t say one word to us, but he didn’t have to. His disappointment and anger were written out in clear language across his face.

Those silly dreams I’d woven in the back of Wayne’s car about possibly taking our relationship beyond May 25th….it had included figuring out how to broker a peace between Dad and Victor. But now, as we took our seats, I sizzled alive in a frying pan of embarrassment and regret.

I said nothing, but of course, Victor had the nerve to try to make conversation.

“Where’s your lovely wife?” he asked Dad, his expression coldly pleasant. “She should be recovered from her surgery by now.”

Dad visibly gritted his jaw.

“She’s still in Texas,” he answered in sign language. His choice of communication appeared to be a decision. “She had some unfinished business before she could move up here.”

“I see. She is still in rehab then,” Victor signed. That malicious smile of his returned as he dropped that bomb. And he spelled out R-E-H-A-B as if he didn’t want to leave it to chance that we wouldn’t understand exactly what he was saying.

Mom was in a rehab facility? My heart jerked at this new piece of information. But I didn’t want to give Victor the satisfaction of my shock. He was already winning this last anniversary battle on every front.

“Where’s Byron?” I asked dad out loud, changing the subject.

Dad stared Victor down for a long, hard beat before he answered me, also out loud, “Your brother’s not here yet. I’ll shoot him a text message to see if he’s on his way.”

With that, Dad brought out his phone, saving us from any further conversation.

And a new idea occurred to me.