“Morning, Arthur,” Thomas called out, shaking my father’s hand with deep warmth. “The base commander sent his compliments on the parade grounds. He said they’ve never looked better.”
“That’s because my daughter designed the new drainage system,” my father said proudly, patting my shoulder.
Thomas turned to me, his hazel eyes shining in the morning sun. “Are you ready for lunch, Clara? I found a small place downtown. Nothing fancy—just good food and good company.”
“Sounds perfect,” I smiled.
My father picked up his leather work gloves, looking between the two of us with a peaceful, contented smile.
Twelve years ago, he had given away his last dollar in a coffee can to save a stranger on a dark highway. He had asked for nothing in return, expecting only to live a quiet life of hard work and quiet dignity.
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