Sometimes, good intentions can be as harmful as a blaster bolt to the head.
Dear Mrs. Aeron Whitesun,
The Rebel Alliance High Command regrets to inform you...
They sent his helmet back with the letter.
...Regrets to inform you...
Torpedo went right through the cockpit, lucky shot for the TIE.
...Regrets to inform you that your husband...
He was going to come home on leave, today. I'm wearing his favorite dress.
...Your husband perished, defending his cause valiantly against the Empire...
He loved to see me wear the purple dress. Light, airy, Hapan web-silk.
...Defending his cause valiantly against the Empire...
Sleeveless, flows to the floor like water. Today was our third anniversary.
...Be sure that we feel your pain, and you have our deepest sympathies...
We married the week before he left to join the Rebels. I wanted to ask him not to leave, but I knew how much he believed in it, how much he could make a difference.
A month after he left, I found out that I was pregnant. But I couldn't contact him, to tell him. The fleet was on the run from the Empire.
...A funeral service will be held for your husband, and the three other pilots who died with him...
I became overstressed when I heard that he had been injured in battle. My doctor told me to rest.
...Again, our deepest sympathies.
Sincerely, Mon Mothma.
But I couldn't rest. The stress was too much. One day, I became violently ill. He came to me.
...The Rebel Alliance High Command regrets to inform you...
I miscarried my baby. That was the first thing I'd said to him, face to face, in seven months.
I lost our baby.
I couldn't stop crying. I thought he'd hate me for it. But he didn't. He just held me in his arms, and told me that everything was going to be all right.
He came back on another leave four months later. I became pregnant again. I had a daughter, a beautiful little girl. Our beautiful little girl.
As I sit on the railing of the balcony, looking out at the sun setting over the ocean, holding his flight helmet in my hands, I wonder.
I wonder who I should hate.
Him: For leaving me?
The Alliance: For letting him die?
The Empire: For killing him?
Now that the other half of my heart is gone, I'm too empty and incomplete to hate.
There's a burn mark where the Rebel insignia should be. I absently trace with with my finger.
The blood-red sunlight catches a glint off of my wedding ring.
In the background, I can hear the holonet, announcing something.
Luke Skywalker has just destroyed the Death Star. Serves Palpatine right, for what he did to Alderaan.
I glance over at the holoproj, in time to see a picture of Skywalker. Young, handsome, innocent. Most likely the Alliance's new mascot. They'll worship his name forever.
But who remembers the civilians? Not the civilians who die, no. The ones who survive. Who have to live with pain forever.
There is a brief paragraph dedicated to the pilots who died at Yavin.
But does anyone dedicate anything to the pilots' wives?
I hear a soft sob. It's my baby. I stand, and go to her crib, and cradle her in my arms.
She looks like her father. His eyes, so soft, and warm.
I can't quiet her. I wonder if she knows, somehow.
I carry her to the balcony, and sit on the rail again, letting the cold stone arch rub against my back.
Myra was born only a month ago. He never got to see her.
Her crying ceases, but she still whimpers. I hum a lullabye, a soft, eerie song that my mother sang to me when I fussed, so many years ago. She quiets, and falls asleep in my arms.
I won't hate anyone, for my daughter's sake. And when she is old enough, I'll tell her what a hero her daddy was.
We're all heroes. Those who die, and those who are left behind.
They die because they love something enough to fight for it. Because they fight for us.
We go on, because we honor those who died. Because it's our duty, our calling to go on.
The Pilot's Wife doesn't need to be remembered. She just needs to live. She needs to live for her husband, because he didn't just die for the cause. He died for her.
He died for me, and for our baby. And we'll live for him.
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