need to become him again.
Maybe I just needed to stop being ashamed that he existed.
Claire smiled sadly.
“You look happy.”
“I am.”
She nodded.
“I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
We sat quietly.
Fourteen years of marriage reduced to two people drinking coffee across a small table.
When we finally stood up, Claire hugged me.
I hugged her back.
Then we said goodbye.
I walked outside alone.
My knee still hurt.
It probably always would.
But I no longer considered the limp a weakness.
It was proof.
Proof that I had been somewhere.
Survived something.
And kept walking.
A year after the divorce, I received an invitation to speak at a veterans’ business event.
Before I went onstage, I caught my reflection in the glass.
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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