William.

This is the cruelty we did not anticipate, I thought. We survived Culloden. We survived the stones, the witch trials, the ocean. But we did not survive the quiet horror of our own child carrying a flag against us.

It is a strange thing, to be a physician who cannot heal the wound of a child’s absence. To know that William, our secret, breathing ghost, is out there, wearing a red coat, fighting a war we are trying to end. Every cannon blast from the distant siege of Yorktown feels like a heartbeat. His heartbeat. Or the final, shuddering gasp of the life we might have had.