I remember the day my father told me I was his favorite son. The day before he went to war. I was in the kitchen making a Poptart and he came in and he told me.
He shook each of us by the hand before he got on the plane the next day. As he shook my mother’s hand, I wondered if she knew I was his favorite son. I wondered if my brothers knew. In his uniform, he seemed larger than life. He was only five foot three, I learned later in life, but he was a giant in my eyes.
That was the last time I ever saw him. It wasn’t until years later that I told my brothers what our father had told me that morning in the kitchen. That’s when we learned:
He told us all the same thing.