Pride & Prejudice

Dear Rachel,

You were always so proud of me; I’d like to think I deserved it, but I often wonder. When I was developing software you’d lie in wait at B. Dalton’s or Egghead and pounce on the unwary shopper who picked up one of our software packages: “My daddy made that!” you’d say with a smile. “You should buy it. It’s really good.” Perhaps you were bucking for a commission.

You were a bit older when I became the editor of a computing magazine, so you were a little more subtle. You’d just drag your friends over to the rack at Barnes & Noble, grab a magazine and point to my name on the masthead: “See that? That’s my dad. Pretty cool, huh?” Maybe “subtle” isn’t the right word.

I suppose every little girl is proud of her daddy.

But I hope you knew how proud I was of you. You turned out to be a wonderful, bright, witty, kind person. The day you finally got that college degree—just a few weeks before you were killed—was one of the happiest days of my life. We were all so proud of you for sticking it out: me, your mom, Lesley, Amy, and all the grandparents, too. We knew how tough it was, what with having to work, go to school, and raise a baby at the same time. It would’ve been so easy to quit, but you didn’t.

You never got to hold your actual diploma; you and all the other graduates marched across the stage holding a sheet of paper that looked like a diploma, but we got to see the real thing. Someone from ODU came by after your memorial service and dropped it off with your mom. I was reminded at the time of an honor guard presenting the flag to a fallen soldier’s mother.

Like the soldier’s flag ceremony, it was touching, and very kind of the university to make sure we got the diploma. But I wondered what those mothers really think when they’re handed that tri-folded flag. No, that’s not right; I know exactly what they think: No, thank you. You’re very kind, but you can keep your flag. I’d like my child back. Please. I’d like my child back. I’ll give you the flag and everything I own. You can have anything I’ve ever owned, and anything I might ever own, if you’ll just give me back my child. Will you do that for me? Please?

Love,

Dad