He looked down at the writing that, despite the passage of years, he recognized

as his mother’s. She used to write many notes to him and his brother, ones of

encouragement, support, sometimes just funny things to make them smile or,

better yet, laugh, particularly when they were sad or uncertain or fearful.

 

The life of an Army brat was not easy. The life of a son of an Army legend could

sometimes be pure hell.

 

The Puller brothers had learned that lesson vividly as they had grown into men.

 

People either assumed you were as good and talented and brave as your legendary

father and never allowed you to fall below that supremely high bar, or they

assumed you were nowhere near as good as he was because it was a rare family

that could spawn multiple fighting legends. Thus you were instantly relegated to

being parasites riding your father’s coattails. Nothing you achieved would ever

be because of what you did, but only because of who your father was.

 

So anything you accomplished, under either scenario, would never be good enough.

 

Because you would never be him.

 

The letter was brief but compelling, even heartwrenching in parts.

 

What he would have given to have received letters from her when he’d been at

college, or when he’d first joined the Army. Or when he’d been deployed overseas