The last thing he told his father was that he didn’t think he was coming back. A calm voice, a quiet goodbye, a son preparing for what he somehow knew was coming. One day later, the knock on the door shattered everything. A porch full of uniforms. A mother screaming, “You got to be kidd…” Continues…
He was 28, the only son of parents who had watched him choose a dangerous calling and love it with his whole heart. Tech Sgt. Tyler Simmons died doing the job he believed he was meant to do, aboard a KC-135 refueling aircraft that never made it home from Iraq. Hours before the crash, he called his dad, Mylo, with a serenity that now feels unbearable: he said he loved him, asked him to tell his dog Grayson he loved him too, and admitted he didn’t think he would return.
His father begged the universe for him to be wrong. His mother, Cheryl, had already heard the fear between the lines when he told her he’d been shot at. When officers finally appeared on their porch, time stopped. Their son is now a folded flag and a name in a Pentagon release—but to them, he remains the boy they raised, the man who died with no regrets because he loved what he did.
