Khloe attended quietly and sat near the back.
My father sat beside her.
Neither asked for photographs afterward.
Neither tried to make the day about reconciliation.
They simply showed up.
When the ceremony ended, Khloe approached me and adjusted the ribbon she had once watched dripping with wine.
“You look appropriate,” she said, her voice unsteady.
It was a painful joke and an apology at the same time.
I looked at her for a long moment.
Then I let her straighten it.
The stain had not disappeared completely.
Neither had what happened between us.
But the uniform was still mine.
The record was still true.
And when I walked out of the room, no one had to tell the crowd why I belonged there.
