"If this was one of your riding brothers, would you call him a thief before asking for the original records?"
Nobody spoke.
Then she looked back at me.
"Would you?"
I should have answered.
Instead, I lost my temper.
I accused her of embarrassing me.
Told her she was making the club look bad.
And said she wasn't welcome at another meeting until she admitted what she'd done.
My daughter's face changed.
Not anger.
Not disbelief.
Something worse.
Disappointment.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then whispered, "I thought you'd be the one person who listened."
I said something I'll regret until the day I die.
"Then maybe you don't know me as well as you think."
She stared.
I wish I could tell you I stopped there.
I didn't.
I reached toward the patch over my heart.
The one she'd sewn when she was nine.
And in a moment of anger so stupid that I can barely explain it, I pulled at the old stitching.
The leather resisted.
I tore several threads loose.
Then removed the patch.
I placed it on the table.
"Maybe we both need to remember what loyalty means."
My daughter looked at the little blue star.
For several seconds, she didn't move.
Then she picked it up.
Folded it carefully.
And placed it inside her handbag.
She didn't shout.
Didn't insult me.
Didn't ask anyone else to defend her.
She simply looked at me.
Then said, "I know what loyalty means, Dad."
Her voice trembled.
"I just wish you did."
Then she walked out.
I followed her into the parking lot.
Not to apologize.
To finish the argument.
She was already beside her car.
I called her name.
She turned.
I demanded to know why she was running away instead of answering the allegations.
She stared.
Then reached into her car.
She took out another folder.
Held it toward me.
"Everything you need is here."
I didn't take it.
She looked down at the papers.
Then back at me.
"I found the money trail."
I shook my head.
"Then give it to the president."
She laughed once.
A sad, empty sound.
"Dad, he's the one I think is helping cover it."
That made me furious.
I accused her of trying to destroy people who had been family to us.
She looked at me.
Then said, "You taught me to stand beside people who need help."
I didn't answer.
She continued.