Hands trembling, I pulled the note from him. He didn’t stir. His leather vest was torn. His face bruised purple and yellow. The note read:
“Mrs. Chen, I knew your son David. I was with him in Afghanistan when he died. I promised him something. I’m sorry it took me twelve years to keep that promise. Please don’t let them take me to the hospital. Just need to rest. Then I’ll explain everything. – Staff Sergeant Thomas Morrison, Retired.”
David. My David. Dead twelve years this month.
I stood frozen in my nightgown, staring at this stranger who claimed to have held my son as he died. Against every instinct, I brought blankets, first aid, and sat beside him, cleaning his wounds.
He groaned awake. “Mrs. Chen?” His voice was hoarse.
“Who are you? What happened?” I demanded.
“I’m Thomas Morrison. Your son’s squad leader in Afghanistan. I’ve been looking for you for twelve years.”
He handed me an envelope—David’s handwriting, messy but unmistakable.
“David gave this to me hours before he died,” Thomas said. “Promised I’d deliver it personally. Not the Army. Not the mail. In your hands.”
Tears ran down my face. Thomas explained: David hadn’t died instantly. He’d lived for two hours, talking about me, peaceful, brave. He’d made Thomas promise to take care of me if anything happened.
Inside the envelope, I found a journal and a letter detailing my son’s last hours and Thomas’s own tragedies—his son lost to a car accident while he was deployed. And a Purple Heart, David had carried it everywhere, a reminder that even the worst days had meaning.
Over the next three days, I cared for Thomas. I listened to stories of David I’d never heard—how he helped others, learned Dari, shared his care packages with local kids, and planned to become a teacher. Thomas introduced me to his motorcycle club, the Guardians, a family of veterans who protect and care for Gold Star families.
