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Personal Narrative: When Is My Son Coming Home

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Two years ago there was a knock at my door. I remember I had cookies baking when they came. When I opened the door there were two men in uniforms and before they even spoke a word, I knew they had come to tell me my son was dead. Henry had always wanted to be a soldier since he was a toddler. I supported him, letting him wear the camo uniforms and hold his pretend sniper on Halloween. Secretly I hoped he would grow out of it and want to go to college, but I came to the realization that it wasn’t going to happen when he showed me his enlistment papers. They told me Henry saved a life. He was a hero. It was a valiant death. I nodded my head, my brain shutting out the words. “When is my son coming home?” I had asked. Since then, I have struggled

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