He looked across the table at me, my son, with his hazel eyes that betrayed an inner kindness which could not be corrupted. I could hardly believe that he was leaving to enlist with the army. Immensely proud, I also feared for his life as we were embroiled in a war with the Baaman Empire. He tried to show a countenance of courage and strength, but I could see right through him as if he were ethereal and knew that he was no killer.

In his place, I knew I would have done the same. Were I only a couple years younger, I probably would have joined him, but to lose my only child was terrifying. I knew that he may come back to us, but even the possibility of his demise was unthinkable. A tear escaped from the corner of my eye and traced a path down the edge of my jaw. His eyes began to fill as he watched it until they, too, began to overflow.

He stood up from the table and began to walk out, but stopped. His feet had grown roots that kept him there until I could rise to give him one last hug goodbye.

That was the last time I got to hug my son.