Is there anyone else who feels this strange, almost clinical disassociation when trying to bridge the gap between their wartime experiences and the… civilian understanding of their family? I was just with my father, a general, you know, and I tried to explain my service—the grit of it, the profound isolation even amidst a unit—and he looked at me, 45 years old, and asked my name. It’s not senility, not precisely; more like an amnesia for the inconvenient, a refusal to recognize the man I became… or perhaps always was. Am I the only one who feels that peculiar ache, watching a parent willfully redact your very existence from their internal history?