For once, the applause wasn’t for him. Soldier Boy stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed over his chest, his iconic green suit catching the early afternoon sun. Sure, he might be forced into a selfie, but he chose the bleachers over the battlefield today. He wanted to be just another father watching his son cross a stage.

The kid looked sharp—clean-cut, confident, standing tall in his ROTC cadet uniform, the spitting image of his old man. Graduating with honors, a bachelor’s and a master’s degree, a minor in military science and an army commission were the result of a five-year college dream. Your baby was second lieutenant now. That title meant something. Not just to the military, but to Soldier Boy. Because it meant the kid had made it, and he made it even farther than Benjamin did.

He raised him fucking right. Hell, who was he kidding, you raised the boy fucking right. You, sitting with your parents and other family members, all of you having tears run down your cheeks as you record the precious moment on that glowing rectangle. Soldier Boy saw that your son wasn’t his own father, who failed at everything and yearned for the love of an old man who never gave it. Your son wasn’t Homelander, a coddled sissy with a dozen complexes that nearly drove the damn country into the ground. He was a hard worker, a damn genius. A proud American man.

The sergeant pins a metal to your boy’s chest and he joins a line of other polished army graduates. You were champing at the bit for the headmaster to finish the ceremony. Meanwhile, all your husband could focus on was how he had managed to get to here. For the first time in a long damn time, Soldier Boy felt something that wasn’t rage, regret, or the dull ache of memories he couldn’t drown.

He felt proud.