1917

July 5, 1918

July 5th marked a significant day: meeting Peggy's parents for the very first time. They were certainly an interesting bunch. Her father, with his golden-yellow tie and thick Scottish accent, made an impression I wouldn't soon forget. The accent, though charming, was so strong that it was a struggle to keep up with what he was saying. Adding to the uniqueness, he called me "laddy" about a thousand times without pause.

"So," he began, his tone heavy with expectation.

"Yes?" I replied, my nerves kicking into high gear.

"Peggy says she is head over heels for you," he said, his expression oddly serious—so much so that it didn't quite match the light-hearted atmosphere of the day.

"Yes, sir, she wants to marry me," I found myself blurting out before I even realized what I was saying.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, his laughter cutting through the silence. It was the kind of laughter that filled the room, hearty and full. But as he looked at my face and saw I was completely serious, the laughter died down, replaced by an expression that was harder to read.

The exchange left a knot of anxiety in my stomach, but I held my ground, determined to prove myself worthy of Peggy's affections. It was a strange but defining moment, one that I'd remember as a turning point in our journey together.

"What makes her think you'd be a good husband?" he asked skeptically, not believing I was good enough for her.

"Let's see, I am very patient and empathetic, and I am quite intelligent for my age," I said nervously, feeling the weight of every word as Peggy's father stared at me.

This whole situation felt less like a casual introduction and more like an interrogation. The kind you'd expect to see reserved for someone like Abel Simmons—the kind of guy who would warrant deep scrutiny—not me. Yet, here I was, sweating under the man's gaze, trying to prove myself worthy of his daughter.

I adjusted my posture, hoping to appear confident even as my nerves threatened to betray me. It was a strange dance of trying to impress while staying true to myself. Despite the tension, I clung to the hope that my honesty would count for something in the eyes of the man who mattered most to Peggy.

"I believe you, laddy," Peggy's father said, his tone softening as he relaxed in his chair.

A wave of relief washed over me, and I felt the tension leave my body. It was as if the sweat pouring from every pore finally ceased like I'd been granted a reprieve. In a strange way, it reminded me of the Garden of Gethsemane—not that I was sweating blood, but the sheer intensity of the moment felt just as overwhelming.

I allowed myself a small smile, finally able to breathe easily in his presence. Whatever test I'd just endured, it seemed I'd passed, and that was enough to steady my nerves and let me focus on what mattered most: Peggy and the future we hoped to build together.

"He seems like a very sweet child," Mrs. Benson said as she lightly brushed my cheek. The gesture was so gentle, so kind, that I couldn't help but feel a swell of comfort. At that moment, it didn't matter who it came from—I simply appreciated the warmth of someone's touch, the reassurance that I wasn't alone in this strange, nerve-wracking introduction to Peggy's family.

Her words, paired with the gesture, felt like a balm, soothing the nerves I'd been battling since the conversation started. It was a fleeting moment of solace, but one that reminded me I could endure whatever came next.

Just then, Peggy walked into the room, her face lit up with a massive smile. The sight of her joy was contagious, and I couldn't help but smile as well. It felt like the tension and nervousness that had filled the room moments before melted away in her presence.

Her happiness had a way of brightening everything, and in that instant, I realized how much I appreciated her warmth and positivity. It was as if her smile alone could reassure me that everything was going to be just fine.

"Hiya, Jeremy!" she giggled adorably. I just about melted whenever she did so.

"Hey, where have you been all this time?" I asked, curious.

"Just hiking," she casually said, causing her father to scold her. I learned later that his name was Henry, and I despised him already.

"Alone? You could have been r***d by a predator! Those n*****s sure love white women," he rudely said, making assumptions about African Americans, and I hated it. Racism is an indefensible and reprehensible ideology. It is entirely irrational to harbor hatred or prejudice against individuals for inherent traits over which they have no control, such as their race or ethnicity. Such attitudes reflect ignorance and perpetuate unnecessary divisions within society.

Discriminating against someone based on their immutable characteristics undermines the principles of equality and mutual respect that should form the foundation of any civilized community. It is essential to recognize the inherent dignity and worth of every individual, celebrating diversity as a source of strength rather than viewing it through the lens of prejudice or fear.

"n*****s are good people!" I shouted, unable to contain my fury at his derogatory comments about Black individuals.

He shot back, his face twisted with anger, "No n****r is worth any respect, I firmly believe that."

The words hit me like a punch, but instead of responding with equal hatred, I paused. It was difficult—so much anger built up in me—but I knew that reacting in kind wouldn't change anything. Instead, I spoke, my voice steady but firm: "Hatred doesn't define someone's worth. We can't judge people by the color of their skin. It's not about race—it's about humanity."

His eyes narrowed, but my words hung in the air, challenging him to reconsider his beliefs.

"Please leave our house, Jeremiah!" he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. My immediate instinct was to protest, to argue against his unjustified hatred, but deep down, I knew it would have been pointless. It was clear he wasn't interested in hearing anything that might challenge his views. So, I left quietly, not wanting to make things more difficult. Peggy, seeing the conflict in my eyes, followed me outside without a word.

"Please don't pay any attention to him," she said, her grip on my hand firm, offering a quiet strength. "He thinks the Confederates were the true heroes in the Civil War."

Her words struck me harder than I expected. It was disturbing to realize how deeply rooted some of these beliefs were in her father's worldview. But as she stood beside me, I realized that her support was all I needed to keep moving forward, no matter how frustrating or disheartening the situation became.

"I—I have to go home," I muttered under my breath, my words barely audible as the weight of everything hit me.

"I'm so sorry for what you witnessed there," Peggy said calmly, her voice soft, trying to calm me down. I wanted to go back, to confront her father and beat his a*s, to challenge the hatred and ignorance he spewed. The urge to fight was overwhelming, but deep down, I knew it would only make things worse for her. She had chastised me before for fighting Isaac, and this situation was far worse.

"It's okay, just please stay safe for me," I managed, blinking back tears as I waved her a quiet goodbye. I didn't know what to say, or how to make sense of the ugly reality we had just faced. The moment hung between us, a painful reminder of how deeply prejudice could poison a home.

It was a moment of helplessness—where wanting to protect and fight for the people you cared about collided with the painful reality of how much damage one person's beliefs could cause. But, despite it all, Peggy's presence was a comfort, a sign that there was still love and understanding in a world that sometimes seemed so full of division.

I prayed for my entire family that night—my cousins, uncles, and the friends I had made over the course of my short lifetime. It felt right to thank God for them, to express gratitude for the people who had shaped my journey, and who had supported me through all the highs and lows. In those quiet moments of prayer, I realized just how much their presence meant in my life. Each one had left their mark, whether through shared laughter, lessons learned, or the comforting embrace of companionship. It was as if, in acknowledging their importance, I was strengthening the bond that held us together.

It was in these simple, reflective moments that I felt a deep sense of peace—a reminder that, despite the chaos around us, the love of family and friends remained a constant source of strength. And for that, I was truly grateful.

I closed my heavy eyes and surrendered to the embrace of Morpheus, letting sleep carry me away. The weight of the day dissolved as the quiet pull of slumber wrapped around me, offering a momentary escape from the burdens of the world. Dreams awaited, a sanctuary where reality softened and gave way to fleeting peace.

I dreamt of Carson once more. This time, I saw him getting married, moving out of the house, and starting a life of his own. For a fleeting moment, it all felt so real—his laughter, the joy in his eyes, the way life seemed to be moving forward as it should have. But then, like a cruel trick, the dream dissolved, and I realized it was all an illusion, a fabrication of my mind trying to piece together a reality that could never be.

See, that's the problem with life: no matter how much hope you hold or how hard you try, it always finds a way to break you. It doesn't care about fairness or justice—it just moves forward, indifferent to what it leaves in its wake.

And I mean it... life doesn't just screw you over; it finds ways to remind you of everything you've lost, even when you're trying to move on. Dreams like these, they're not just visions—they're echoes of what could have been, taunting you with their unreachable promise.

And that's what I hate the most—the way life toys with you. It dangles hope and happiness just within reach, only to snatch it away with cruel indifference. It's not just the loss that hurts; it's the reminder of what could have been, the echoes of joy that never fully existed. Dreams, memories, and regrets blend together, leaving you to wrestle with the emptiness that follows. That bitterness, that hollow ache of knowing you've been let down yet again—that's what I can't stand.

If you want this broken into chapters, diary entries, or smoothed stylistically, just say the word.