—I remembered what it felt like when people clapped for heroes.
Not because the cameras were on. But because the truth was too loud to ignore.
The bill passed last month.
Tom’s name is on it. Not as a headline or a hashtag. As a reminder. A weight.
It doesn’t bring him back. But it helps others like him. It helps the men and women still fighting those invisible fires. And it means something to know that when I said “don’t let them forget,” someone listened.
I still sit in our kitchen most mornings, coffee in hand, boots by the door. But now there’s a framed copy of the letter on the wall. The helmet’s next to it, behind glass. Tommy’s baby is due any day now. He says they’ll name him Thomas. And Sarah? She’s planning to move back East, closer to me.
I think Tom would like that.
Some nights, I talk to him.
Not out loud. Just in that quiet space between dishes and bedtime, when the house is still and the ache is strongest.
“I kept my promise,” I whisper.
“They remember you now.”
And in the silence, I swear I hear him laugh—low and gruff, like the first time he told Sarah that terrible Ferris wheel joke. The sound of a man who knew the world changed, but still believed in the people inside it.
So if you’ve read this far, thank you.
For listening. For remembering.
And if you pass a firefighter today—young or old, coughing or strong—shake their hand. Ask their name. Tell them thank you.
Because sometimes, the loudest applause is the kind that echoes after the stage has gone dark.
