Page 115 of Thrones We Steal

“It wasn’t actually—” She stops.

I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “It wasn’t his actual uniform, was it? Where’s the real one?”

It’s her silence that sets me on edge.

“Mum?”

“I think it might be best if we have this conversation in person.”

* * *

Five minutes later she’s at my door, fingers twining together and apprehension bringing out wrinkles on her face that are usually too terrified to show themselves. We sit on the sofa, and I tell myself the worst has already happened: my father is dead, and no news could possibly be worse than that.

She picks up the photo album, and a smile crosses her face. “So many good memories.”

“Only half as many as there should be.”

She raises her head, and there’s pity in her eyes. “I’m grateful we have as many as we do.” She turns several more pages in silence, then says, “Your father was a good man.”

“I know that, Mum. What does this have to do with the uniform?”

“I just want you to remember your father as you knew him before I tell you what I have to say.”

Cold dread grips my spine. “Fine. Just tell me.”

“Your father joined the military when he was eighteen. He was so eager to do something courageous, to make a difference for this country. He was young, much younger than a lot of the recruits. He served faithfully for almost ten years, until you were three years old.”

And you made him retire.

“He loved it at first. But as time went on—” Her voice falters. “—it started to take its toll on him. He struggled with depression, even suicide. I was worried, but he didn’t like to talk about it.

“One day, you and I were in the back garden. Your father was on a mission in the Middle East, and I didn’t expect him home for another three weeks. I looked up from the flowers you were picking to find him walking across the garden.

“At first I was overjoyed. But as I walked toward him, I saw the look on his face. He didn’t look happy to be home. He looked … hollow. He was wearing his civilian clothes, and I just knew. I knew he’d finally done it. It was the least honorable thing he’d ever done, but in that moment I only felt relief.”

There are moments when time seems to hang suspended in the air. Everything in slow motion as the pieces fall into place, like accident scenes in movies, orchestrated to increase their impact.

I reach for the arm of the sofa, afraid it might crumble beneath me if I don’t have anything to hold onto. Like everything I thought I knew.

“Dad was a … deserter?” I feel like a traitor even putting those words together in the same sentence.

Her answer is in her eyes.

“How could he?” There is no way humanly possible to keep the accusation from my tone.

She places her hand on top of mine. “You have to understand how hard it was for him.”

I jerk it back. “I don’t understand anything. He deserted his duty, his country, his responsibility. There is no excuse for that.”

“He needed help. And he got that after he left.”

“Nothing you say can excuse what he did.”

She sighs and I remember the blame I’ve always placed at her feet for what I thought was my father’s retirement. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.

“You worshiped your father. I couldn’t take away the little you had left of him.”

“So you let me think he was courageous and loyal and good?”

---