My family asked me not to wear my uniform to my grandfather’s military tribute because it would embarrass them in front of the guests. An hour later a four-star general stepped up to the microphone and looked straight at the back row.

Nobody said one word.

Then my father came round and bent down beside my chair and said, quietly:

“There are senators here. There are donors. We don’t need you drawing attention.”

“In uniform? At a military ceremony?”

He sighed like I was being difficult.

“Compared with what your brother’s done, a career in the ranks isn’t exactly something people find impressive any more.”

My mother heard every word of that.

She said nothing, and that is the part I have not been able to put down.

I went out onto the terrace before I said something.

And my phone went.