The moment he got off the bus, they were there. His children rushed to him, throwing their tiny arms around his waist and crying against his uniform. Too overwhelmed to speak, his youngest clung to his shoulder.
“I missed you so much, Daddy,” his son cried.
His throat was full of emotion as he held them tightly. “I’m home now,” he muttered. “I’m here.”
The flags, shouting families, and returning warriors blurred around them. Nothing mattered. Every lonely night overseas, he dreamed about this moment.
But a note was crumpled and worn in his pocket.
A letter he was too scared to open.
A life-changing letter.
He kept his family close and knew he would have to read it eventually.
He sat at the kitchen table with the letter that night, after the kids were asleep and the home was unusually quiet. The envelope was slightly damaged from all the times he had brought it out, glanced at it, then put it back in his pocket.
Lena, his wife, watched him from the doorway. She didn’t ask about the letter but felt it was crucial. She saw him hesitate and shake as he traced the paper because she knew him well.
“You don’t have to open it tonight,” she whispered gently, approaching. “You arrived home. You should rest.”
He gulped. “I need to know.”
Lena paused, then nodded. “I’ll be here.” Before sitting across from him, she put a warm touch on his shoulder.
Breathing deeply, he placed his finger under the flap and removed the letter.
To Staff Sergeant David Monroe,
If you’re reading this, I didn’t return.
The breath of David jerked. He recognized Corporal Ryan Keller, his best buddy, writing. They served together for over four years, through deployments, firefights, and long evenings discussing home, family, and everything in between.
His eyes clouded as he read.
I’ll keep this brief because you despise sentimentality. I require your assistance.
I wrote Claire, my sister. She has no idea what happened. I didn’t tell her much about my work here to avoid worrying her. But she deserves to know. I need it delivered to her. In person.
I don’t want her to learn from a cold, formal telegram because she’s my only family. I want someone who knew me to tell her. Someone I trusted.
Charlotte is her home. I addressed the envelope to her. Reader, do this for me.
Finally, brother, take care of yourself. Go home, embrace your family, and be quick. You always said you feared you wouldn’t know how to live normally after this. I recommend trying. Try daily. For me.
– Ryan
David dropped the letter, chest tense.
Lena grabbed his hand, her eyes shining. Are you okay?
His exhale was slow. Need to do this.”
David held an envelope outside a modest Charlotte house a week later. He hesitated before knocking, his heart racing as he prepared to meet the sister of the guy who had saved him so many times.
Claire Keller cautiously examined him when the door opened. Ryan and she were in their late 20s with piercing blue eyes. David saw his friend in her face and struggled to speak.
He asked Claire.
She nods. “Yes?”
“I served with Ryan,” he delicately remarked. “I was with him in his last moments.”
Her breath caught, and she grabbed the doorframe. “Oh.”
“I’m so sorry,” he handed her the letter. “He wanted this for you.”
The envelope was held with shaky fingers. She stared at it for a while. She stepped back, inhaling deeply. “Want to come in?”
David paused, then nodded. “Yeah. I like that.”
They chatted for hours. Claire asked Ryan about his last words, his personality when no one was watching, and his soldier stories. David shared everything, laughing at some recollections and sobbing at others.
Before leaving, Claire stopped him at the door. Her voice was raw as she said, “Thank you.” “This was brought to me. Thanks for mentioning him.”
David nodded. “One of the best men I ever knew.”
He thought of Ryan’s words as he drove home. Try daily. For me.
For the first time since returning, he sensed progress.
Normality was unknown to him. He knew he would try.
Sometimes we do the hardest things for our loved ones.
Dave kept his word. He loved his family and lived to make Ryan’s name more than a plaque.
Because sometimes progress doesn’t imply forgetting. It involves carrying our lost ones as best we can.
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