While looking through my son's grade 10 history book one night, my eye was drawn to one man in the middle of a picture, in the middle of a crowd celebrating the end of World War II. I froze when I realized who he was. There he was, in a small town in Holland, just outside the town where my mother grew up. There he was, in a photograph that I'd never seen before, that he likely never knew existed before he died. There he was, frozen in time, over a half century ago, having fought and won a war, now going home. There is no mistake - he's my dad.