One year later, Daniel’s boots still stood beside the front door.
Emily had cleaned them.
But she never removed the scratches.
They were part of him.
Noah was three now.
He understood a little more.
Sometimes he would sit beside the boots and look at photographs of his father.
Emily never forced the conversation.
She let him ask questions when he was ready.
One evening, Noah pointed at Daniel’s military portrait.
Daddy soldier.
Emily smiled.
Yes.
He was.
Noah looked at the boots.
Daddy brave?
Emily sat beside him.
Very brave.
Noah thought for a moment.
Then he placed his toy truck between the boots.
For Daddy.
Emily felt tears forming again.
But this time she smiled.
Daniel’s son would grow up without remembering every detail of his father.
That hurt.
But Emily would make sure he knew the important things.
How Daniel laughed.
How he loved his family.
How he carried Noah’s photograph everywhere.
And how, on one rainy day at the cemetery, a little boy recognized his father not by rank or medals.
But by the boots he had seen coming through the front door every night.
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