Judge Holloway read the first line aloud, and the silence in the courtroom turned heavy. “This is a notarized deed and a sworn letter, signed by Harlan Whitman eleven years before his death. Mr. Whitman, did you know your father filed it?” My father’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. My mother stared down at her pearls as though they had suddenly gone cold.

Then the judge lifted his eyes to my ribbons and spoke more gently. “Commander, my son was in your convoy that day. He told me a woman pulled him out of a burning vehicle, and I never learned her name.” He raised a second page. “Your parents did not come here to settle a tax dispute. Read what your grandfather wrote about them.” My father gripped the edge of the table.