Inside, there was only one thing: a photograph. Black and white. Blurry. Looked like it was taken in another country. But we recognized the man right away.

It was our dad. Standing next to someone in handcuffs.

And written on the back, in red ink:

“He didn’t die for what they told you.”

We stared at the picture like it might change if we looked long enough. My brother, Milo, turned it over again and again, like the truth might be hiding in the ink or shadows. I couldn’t stop staring at Dad’s face. He looked younger. Tired, but calm. Not like the decorated officer we saw in framed photos back home.