Her dress was stained, her eyes were red, and her hands were still shaking a little, but she walked anyway.
And when the other kids made space for her, it wasn’t out of pity. It was respect.
This is the part I will remember for the rest of my life.
For the first time, she wasn’t the girl whose dad died in the line of duty.
She was just Wren.
A girl carrying her father with her in the most honest way she knew how.
A girl who had turned grief into something living.
A girl who had turned a moment of pain into one of personal triumph.
I could almost hear Matt saying, “That’s my brave girl.”
She was just Wren.
