We are not close now, but we are no longer strangers either. He visits sometimes and never asks about my work. I used to think his silence meant indifference. Now I understand that he cannot bear to know where the ridgelines are.
I kept my call sign, and I also kept the sniper’s name written in the back of my logbook. She is the woman my father could not save, and the reason he spent my life trying to erase the thing I was built to become. I will remember both truths: what he did to me, and why he did it.
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