Brave to the end, Dad had called me into his bedside that last day. He’d barely been able to lift his hand by then, but still he had, brushing the tears from my cheeks. “What is this? You can’t be my Deirdre of the Sorrows. Smile for me.” I tried, my lips wavering, but I couldn’t maintain it and broke down. “Dad, I’m so, so sorry. It’s all my—” “No.” His voice took on some of its former military tone of command. “You stop that. I ordered you to do this. This is all on me. Don’t forget it.” He lay there, so still, so thin, reduced from the powerful presence he’d always been in my life. But his
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