Daniel answered honestly.
“Thirty years.”
My mother covered her mouth.
“Oh, Danny. I told everyone.”
“I know,” he said.
“I prayed for you every Sunday.”
“I know.”
Her voice trembled.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Daniel’s shoulders sagged.
“Because I thought you deserved a better son than the one who came home.”
The words hung in the room.
My father stared at him for several seconds. Then he did something none of us expected. He sighed. Not an angry sigh. A tired one.
“Son,” he said slowly, “you think we wanted a hero?”
Daniel looked confused.
“I thought you did.”
My father shook his head.
“We wanted our boy.”
My mother reached across the table and touched Daniel’s hand.
“That’s all we ever wanted.”
Daniel’s eyes filled.
“But I failed.”
My father shrugged.
“So did I plenty of times.”
Daniel blinked.
“You…?”
My father gave a small laugh.
“Son, you think a man works thirty-five years in a paper mill and does everything right?”
The tension in the room eased slightly. Not gone, but shifting. My father leaned forward.
“What I’m disappointed about,” he said, “is not the discharge.”
Daniel waited.
“It’s that you thought you had to lie to us for thirty years.”
Daniel’s voice cracked.
“I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me.”
My father shook his head again.
“Shame comes from lies, Danny, not from mistakes.”
My mother wiped her eyes with a napkin.
“You must have been so lonely carrying that.”
Daniel looked at her, stunned.
“I thought you’d hate me.”
My mother stood and wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You’re still my boy.”
