You don't bother going to look for your father before the spring recital. You know his schedule. The entire United States knows his schedule, and he has a cabinet meeting tonight. The audience waiting for you and your classmates to perform would be buzzing if the President of the United States showed up at his son's college music recital instead of going to a scheduled Cabinet meeting. It's not like you're speaking these days anyway. There's too much water under that bridge, and it's only gotten worse the past couple of years.
Before taking your place on stage, front and center beside the stand holding the sheet music, you allow your heart to hope a tiny bit. Before raising the violin to your chin, you allow your eyes to sweep the room one last time. No Secret Service detail, no hushed murmurs and pointing. No President. Dad didn't show, and before you start to play, your heart has fallen again.
Months later, your body dressed in black and mind shrouded in shock, you wonder if your dad regretted your mutual distance the past few years as much as you do now. You'll never be able to hear his voice again, even raised in anger as you fight. You'll keep dialing his phone, but now you won't have to hang up in shame and stubborn pride. Did you love me, you think over the coffin containing Dad's bent and broken body, as much as I secretly loved you?
Later that day, you're in the Oval again, surprised at how much it hurts to see someone else in Dad's desk, in Dad's chair, with Dad's title. And then the new President begins to tell you about old Cabinet meetings, about baseball caps and a father's pride. No, your heart stutters, don't tell me that. I can't handle the burden of his love right now.
President Kirkman hands you a program from the spring recital where you played Violin Concerto Number 2.
And then you finally grieve.