They Said Our Dad Was a Hero—But They Never Told Us the Whole Story

We don’t really remember the funeral. Just flashes—cold wind, a folded flag, and our mom’s face locked in a kind of quiet that didn’t break for weeks. Everyone said the same thing: “He died a hero.” Like that was supposed to fill the hole he left behind.

Every year on his birthday, we come here. Bring the same blanket, lie down next to the stone like we used to lie on the couch with him during Saturday cartoons. It’s weird how grass can feel warm and cold at the same time.