The Satellite Son and the Cane Son: When Money Can’t Carry Grief

I said, my voice cracking. “I’m trying to… be here.”

He laughed once. It wasn’t humor. It was a sound like something snapping.

“Here,” he repeated. “Yeah. You’re here now. After the war.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

He stared at me like that sentence was the most offensive thing I’d said yet.

“You didn’t want to know,” he said. “Because if you knew, you’d continue reading …