Nathan died overseas when Caleb was barely walking. Our son never heard his father’s voice outside of one grainy video, never felt his arms, never got to ask him a single question. Everything Caleb knew about his dad came from photographs, from my stories, and from those two thin pieces of metal on a chain.
But that was enough for him to build an entire dream.
For years, he marched around the living room with a broom over his shoulder. He saluted the flag at baseball games before anyone else stood up. He told every teacher, every dentist, every stranger in the grocery line the same thing.
“I’m going to be a Marine. Like my dad.”
Then his heart got worse. And one day, he just stopped saying it.
A few weeks before the surgery, I heard a thud from his bedroom. I found him on the floor beside his bed, arms shaking, face red, trying to do a push-up.
He couldn’t do even one.
I lifted him back onto the mattress, and he wouldn’t look at me.
“Mom,” he whispered, “would Dad be disappointed if I never get to wear the uniform?”
“Your dad loved you,” I told him. “Not a uniform.”
