Guardians of War

Episode 3

Henry joined her, looking down at the chair with a thoughtful expression. “Yeah. I always figured he was just decompressing from work, but it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Maybe he was trying to keep whatever haunted him at bay. Mom never asked him about it, at least not in front of us. She just let him be, like she knew he needed that space.”

Maria’s mind drifted back to the nights when her mother would quietly join George in the living room, sitting across from him with her knitting, never pushing him to talk, just being there with him in that silent, shared understanding. It was in those moments Maria saw the depth of their relationship, the way they could communicate without words. Her mother’s patience had always been something Maria admired, though she often wondered what her mother knew, what secrets she carried alongside her father.

A specific memory surfaced, one that Maria hadn’t thought about in years. She must have been about eight years old, and it was one of those rare weekends when her father wasn’t busy with work. They had gone to the local park, just the two of them, to fly a kite—a simple, homemade kite that her father had insisted on making himself. Maria remembered how the wind had caught the kite, pulling it high into the sky, and how she had laughed with delight. But then, as they watched the kite soar, her father’s expression had changed. He became quiet, his eyes distant, as if the sight of the kite had triggered something deep within him.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Maria had asked, tugging at his sleeve.

George had smiled down at her, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just thinking about the past, that’s all.”

Maria hadn’t understood at the time, but now, looking back, she wondered if that moment had been one of many when her father’s thoughts had drifted back to the war, to memories he couldn’t share with anyone, not even his family. It was a fleeting glimpse into the burdens he carried, one that Maria now realized was more significant than she had ever known.

“But what if there’s more to it?” Maria pressed, her voice tinged with the frustration she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. “What if there’s something we need to know?”

Henry looked at her, his expression softening. “Maria, whatever Dad did during the war, it’s in the past. It doesn’t change who he was to us. He was a good father, a good man. That’s what matters.”

Maria wanted to agree with him, to let it go, but something inside her wouldn’t let her. There had always been a part of her that felt like she didn’t fully understand her father, that there was a piece of him she couldn’t quite reach. Now, with him gone, that feeling had only intensified.

Their father had been a pillar in the community, respected and admired by neighbors and friends alike. He was the kind of man who never sought the spotlight, but whose presence was always felt. After returning from the war, George had settled into a quiet life, working as a civil engineer, helping to rebuild the infrastructure of a nation still recovering from the scars of conflict. He was the one people turned to when they needed advice, a hand in fixing a broken fence, or just a word of encouragement.

Yet, there was always a distance, a part of him that seemed unreachable. Maria remembered the countless evenings she had seen him sitting alone on the back porch, staring out at the sunset, a glass of whiskey in hand, as if lost in thoughts too heavy to share. She and Henry had once asked him about those moments, but he would only smile softly, ruffle their hair, and change the subject. “Just an old man’s musings,” he would say, but Maria had never been convinced.

Even in his friendships, George had been selective. His closest companions were a small group of men, all veterans of the war, who met regularly at the local American Legion Hall. They would gather, talk, and sometimes drink late into the night, but Maria had the sense that these meetings were about more than just camaraderie. There was a bond among them, forged in the crucible of war, and a mutual understanding that words could never fully capture. George had never brought her or Henry to these gatherings, and when they asked why, he would simply say, “Some things are just for us old soldiers.”

Despite his quiet demeanor, George was not without his quirks. He had a habit of meticulously organizing everything—his tools in the garage, the books on his shelves, even the papers in his desk. Maria often joked that she could find anything in his study blindfolded, and he would laugh, though she always detected a hint of pride in his eyes. But now, standing in this room, Maria wondered if his need for order was more than just a personality trait. Perhaps it was a way to keep something—some part of his life—under control, safely tucked away where no one, not even his own children, could find it.

Maria turned back to the bookshelf, pulling down another book at random. This one was older, the cover faded and the pages yellowed with age. She opened it, but instead of finding words, she found a photograph tucked between the pages. It was an old black-and-white photo, slightly bent at the edges, showing a group of men in military uniforms. They were standing in front of what looked like a European city, though Maria couldn’t place where. Her father was among them, much younger, his expression serious, almost stern.

She stared at the photo, her heart pounding. “Henry, look at this.”

Henry came over, peering over her shoulder at the photo. “Where did you find that?”

“In this book,” Maria said, handing it to him. “I don't recognize any of the other men. Do you?”