We don’t really remember the funeral. Just flashes—cold wind, a folded flag, and our mom’s face locked in a kind of quiet that didn’t break for weeks. Everyone said the same thing: “He died a hero.” Like that was supposed to fill the hole he left behind.
Every year on his birthday, we come here. Bring the same blanket, lie down next to the stone like we used to lie on the couch with him during Saturday cartoons. It’s weird how grass can feel warm and cold at the same time.
This year, Mom let us come out on our own. Said we were old enough.
We didn’t talk much. Just traced the letters in silence—ALFRED DAVID BRAZEL—and tried to feel something other than that empty stretch of what if.
Then my brother pulled something out of his jacket. A little envelope. Said it came in the mail two days ago, addressed to “The Brazel Kids.” No return address. Just typed letters. No stamps.
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.