When I was a kid, my birthdays were simple. Balloons, a cake my mom baked, maybe a toy I had been begging for all year. But every year, without fail, one gift stood out.

It came from my grandfather.

He would hand me a small wrapped box, neat and precise, just like the man himself. Inside, every single year, was the same thing: a little green plastic soldier.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I was eight years old, after all, and kids that age don’t question gifts. I assumed Grandpa just liked army stuff—he was a veteran, after all—and I figured this was his way of sharing a piece of himself with me. So I did what polite grandkids do: I smiled, said thank you, and tucked the soldier away in a drawer.