We don’t remember much about our dad’s funeral—just the cold wind, the folded flag, and our mom’s silence that lasted for weeks. Everyone kept saying, “He died a hero.” Like that was supposed to make us feel whole.
Every year on his birthday, we visit his grave. This year, Mom let us go alone. We lay on the blanket like we used to with him on Saturdays, just staring at the name etched in stone: Alfred David Brazel.
Then my brother pulled out an envelope. No return address. No stamps. Just our names typed on the front.
Inside was a single black-and-white photo.
Our dad—alive—standing beside a man in handcuffs. And on the back, written in red ink:
“He didn’t die for what they told you.”
We turned it over again and again, trying to make sense of it. Dad looked younger… tired… different from the hero in our living room photos.
And just like that, everything we thought we knew began to unravel.
