John had been coming into my office for years. Same quiet routine. Same nod. One of those people you don’t really notice—until suddenly, you do.
Last week, I mentioned to him that my girlfriend and I were heading to Vietnam. Just casual conversation. But something in John changed. His expression softened, eyes clouding over with memory.
“I was there,” he said. “Fall of Saigon. Helped load orphaned children onto planes. We tried to save as many as we could.”
My heart dropped. I was one of those children. I told him so.
He froze. His hands stopped mid-motion on the counter. His eyes welled up. “Then I might’ve held you,” he whispered.
None of us spoke for a moment. I’d spent my life wondering about the people who helped me survive. And now—one of them stood right in front of me.
We talked for a while. He spoke about the chaos and heartbreak of that time. As he left, he gripped my shoulder. “I’ll sleep better tonight,” he said. “Knowing you made it.”
It felt like a beautiful, full-circle moment. But then John hesitated.
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