But he died before reaching the field hospital.
I had spent years carrying the guilt.
Not because I had sent him there.
Because I hadn’t stopped him.
I closed my eyes.
“Mom?”
I turned.
Noah stood at the kitchen doorway.
He was holding the photograph.
“You weren’t asleep.”
He shook his head.
“Who is he?”
I sat down.
“His name was Daniel Whitmore.”
“Grant’s brother?”
“Yes.”
Noah looked at the photograph.
“What happened?”
I took a breath.
“Your uncle Daniel died during a military operation.”
“Was it your fault?”
The question hit harder than I expected.
“No.”
Then I corrected myself.
“But I blamed myself.”
Noah sat beside me.
I told him everything.
Not the classified details.
Not the operational information that belonged in military records.
Just the human part.
The part about Daniel.
The part about the decision.
The part about his family receiving the news.
