Ten years after my father disowned me for URM becoming a combat doctor, I returned for my grandfather’s funeral—and Dad immediately mocked me for “putting Band-Aids on soldiers.”

She opened a drawer and removed an old cardboard box.

Inside were letters.

Dozens of them.

All addressed to me.

But none had stamps.

I recognized Dad’s handwriting immediately.

My chest tightened.

“What are these?”

Margaret looked uncomfortable.

“Your grandfather found them in Charles’s office three years ago.”

I stared at her.

“He took Dad’s letters?”

“With permission.”

“Why weren’t they sent?”

“You would need to ask Charles.”

I picked up the first envelope.

Christmas, nine years ago.

Another.

My birthday.

Another.

The year I made major.

Another.

The year I deployed.

There were nineteen in total.

Brandon was silent.

I opened the oldest one.