I never knew my father.
He was always out fighting wars, coming home just long enough to conceive me. The first memory I have is the man in the trenchcoat coming to our home to tell us he never would again.
I got told all about his heroism, about all the brave things he did, selflessly. Every day, someone would tell me how great a man he was.
I didn't know him, the real him, I just knew the myth, the creation everyone else had made around him.
And then I found his diary, and I've knew him even less.
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