Henry was happiest when telling stories about his childhood. Without siblings, living so far from his hometown, there was no one to correct him when he told his children, “My adventures could fill a bookshelf,” or even when he just smiled and refused to answer their questions. His role as historian was his pride and joy. And he crushed doubt with an iron fist: his children would take his word for anything.
They told him so.
It was only hard in the quiet moments; those spring mornings when the blanket of fog would clear and reveal the emptiness behind it.