The retirement banquet was supposed to be ceremonial, almost gentle in its purpose, a final bow after decades of corporate leadership and polished authority. The Lakeside Country Club had been transformed into something reverent and elegant, with tall arrangements of white flowers lining the walls, soft instrumental music floating above the hum of conversation, and rows of round tables dressed in linen so crisp they reflected the golden chandelier light. I sat beside my husband, Daniel, my posture composed, my expression calm, the way I had learned to be since childhood whenever my father was involved. Richard Halden had always been a commanding presence, a man who filled rooms without raising his voice, whose approval felt like a prize rarely granted and easily revoked. Growing up, I learned early that love in our household came with conditions, and praise was rationed carefully, reserved for achievements that reflected well on him. Even so, I had told myself that this evening would be different. Retirement softened people, didn’t it? Endings made them reflective. As he stood from his seat, lifting his glass with a smile practiced over years of boardroom speeches, the room stilled in anticipation. He thanked colleagues, praised loyalty, spoke about legacy and pride. Applause followed every polished sentence.