My son was born on a snowy morning in January.
He came into the world screaming, healthy and strong, with Daniel’s eyes and my stubborn chin.
Colonel Hayes was the first visitor. He stood at the foot of the hospital bed in civilian clothes this time, holding his hat in his hands.
“He would have been so proud,” he said, voice rough.
I looked down at my son — Daniel Elias Carter — and felt tears slip down my cheeks.
“I know,” I whispered. “I can feel it.”
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