She stood in the hushed hall, the air thick with sorrow and the faint scent of roses. Her hands clutched the soft pink blooms against her stomach, where the gentle curve of new life pressed back against her palms. Inside her grew the child of the man she had loved more than anything in this world — a man who now looked back at her only from a black-and-white photograph on an easel.
Her breath caught in her throat. He would never see this baby. Never feel the tiny fingers curl around his own. Never hear the first cry or the first laugh. The thought broke her in ways words could not touch.
But she knew one thing with unshakable certainty — his name would live on. Not just etched in stone, not just in folded flags or faded uniforms, but in the heart of their child. Through him, her husband’s courage would be carried forward. Through him, his pride and honor would take root in a new life.
When the time came, she would give birth alone. There would be no strong arms to hold her through the pain, no voice to whisper, “You can do this.” Yet she knew her child would never truly be without a father. Every story she told, every memory she shared, would weave his presence into the child’s heart.
This baby would bear the name of a hero — a name spoken with love, a name worn with pride, a name the child would grow to honor.
And though the man she loved was gone, she felt him there — in the stillness, in the roses, in the quiet beating of the heart beneath her own.
