My father once told me you had to fight for everything you ever owned in the world. That was back most people really owned things. We had a farm then. Well, part of a communal one, but the rest belonged to friends and neighbours, and it was ours. My father died trying to keep it.
He always said his father had told him you had to pick your battles. That you had to figure out which things were the most important to you, and let the others go. Moosoom got sick right before the war started, thought it was just a cold. He died waiting for the tests he didn’t want to fight for that would’ve shown the cancer.
My father said my grandfather was a good man, one of the best. I’ve never heard him say anything bad about his father in my life. But when he talked about battles, I got the feeling he thought maybe moosoom should’ve picked a few more.