This is not a diary; this is proof that my father was a hero.
A retelling, if you wish to call it that. But not a diary. I was young, and I still am, but sitting by the hearth now surrounded by what is left of my family, I ken the mistakes I have made, and I need you to understand what exactly happened to us, the Scottish, during the many years of English occupation.
My mother died in childbirth. I never got the chance to meet her because I was too busy screaming my way into this war-stricken world. I may have cried out for her, but my memory does not span that far back into my past. My father certainly cried for her, either in his sleep or in his mind. I might not have been able to see it, but I knew he was grieving. Every time he glanced at me.
Talk of the village was that I was the s
