And he did.
Every Sunday.
Sometimes more often.
No matter where he was stationed.
No matter how busy his schedule became.
He called.
His father died seven years before the events on the Millhaven sidewalk.
The final months were difficult.
A serious illness gradually weakened the man who once carried heavy equipment, repaired farm machinery, and worked long hours without complaint.
He became frustrated by his physical limitations.
Sometimes he grew quiet.
Sometimes he apologized for needing help.
His wife refused to let him feel ashamed.
She cared for him with the same patience he'd shown her during fifty-one years of marriage.
And their son traveled home whenever his military responsibilities allowed.
During one visit, the old veteran asked to see his military badge.
His son retrieved the velvet case from the bedroom.
The father held the small silver insignia in his palm.
For several seconds, he stared.
Then smiled.
"Still looks good."
His son sat beside the bed.
"Dad, you kept that thing polished for fifty years."
The older man laughed softly.
"Some things are worth taking care of."
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then the father looked toward his son.
"Do you know why I kept it?"
The general, who had not yet reached that rank, smiled.
"Because you earned it."
His father nodded.
"That's part of it."
He turned the badge over.
Then continued.
"But mostly because it reminds me of men who didn't come home."
His son's expression softened.
The old veteran took a breath.
"I got to have a life after the Army. I married your mother. Raised you. Worked. Made mistakes. Had good days and bad ones."
He looked toward the badge.
"Some of the men I served with never got that chance."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then the father looked toward his son again.
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
The older man's eyes filled.
"Don't ever let a uniform convince you that you're worth more than the person standing in front of you."
His son swallowed.
Then nodded.
"I promise."
The old veteran smiled.
"Good."
He placed the badge inside the case.
Then handed it to his son.
"Give that to your mother when I'm gone. She knows how to keep the important things safe."
His son stared at the box.
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then he placed one hand over his father's.
"I love you, Dad."
The older man smiled.
"I know, son."
Those were among the last clear conversations they had.