I gotta get this out. It’s eating at me, every single day, every day. My dad, he’s 70 now, right? Veteran. Marine. He doesn’t talk about it much, never did, but I know it shaped him. You know? All that stuff they went through. Now, it’s like…he wants to talk. He *really* wants to talk. And that’s new. It’s just…there’s no one left. Or hardly anyone. The guys he served with, the ones who really *get* it, they’re just…gone. Either passed on or too sick or just moved away. It’s brutal to watch. He’ll try to strike up conversations, sometimes at the grocery store, sometimes if he sees a hat or a bumper sticker. Little things. And he gets this look, this hopeful thing, then it just fades. Because they’re never the *right* kind of veteran, you know? Not the ones who were there, in *that* specific place, during *that* specific time. He just wants to share stories. Not big dramatic war stories, just the everyday stuff, the grunt stuff, the jokes, the boredom. The little things that make sense only to someone who was *there*. I try, I really do. I listen. I ask questions. But I wasn’t there. I can’t fill that void for him. No one can. It’s just…lonely. For him. And I see it. It’s like a hole that’s getting bigger, every day. I’m busy, too, with my own crap, you know? Office politics, the quarterly reports breathing down my neck, making sure my kid’s college tuition fund is still on track. But this is different. This feels…fundamental. Like a part of his life, a really important part, is just…disappearing. And he’s seeing it happen, day by day. He’ll repeat a story, sometimes, a short one, then look at me with this almost pleading expression, like he’s hoping I’ll remember something or understand something new. And I don’t. I never do. It just hurts. Every time.