When Dad came home with a medal, he sensed a grudging respect from his father, but after dodging incoming artillery, he no longer feared his Brooks Brothers belt or even cared what he thought. I once asked him if he ever felt like shoving that medal in his father’s face, yelling, “What do you think of your sissy son now, old man?” He said he didn’t feel that, because after many years, he’d finally let go of his anger toward him. I’d grown up hearing him rage against his father, but if he was feeling sanguine in that moment I didn’t want to spoil it, and I let the answer slide.
