I promised I’d be back before their birthdays.
On the porch in mismatched pajamas, Mateo clung to my leg, Jasira lay half-asleep with her thumb in her mouth, and Amari tried to seem brave despite his trembling lip.
My ex-wife stayed inside—she couldn’t bear to watch. We rarely speak except about the kids, and when I told her I was deploying again, she simply murmured, “Don’t tell them too much.”
So I kept it light.
I knelt down and delivered the usual farewell: “Be good for Mom, help your sister, and brush your teeth.” I made it sound like I was leaving on a long work trip. I never mentioned the goodbye letters I’d hidden away in a closet box or that I’d updated my will just last week.
Amari asked, “Will you be back for my science fair?”
I replied, “I’ll try, buddy.”
What broke me wasn’t the sight of their tears—it was how hard they fought to hold them back, as if they knew I needed strength rather than sorrow. I kissed Jasira’s forehead and whispered that she was my favorite girl in the whole world, and I promised Mateo that we’d go to the beach together when I returned.
My heart nearly burst as I looked at them one last time, my hands still on Amari’s shoulders. The words I truly wanted to say—“I don’t know if I’m coming back this time”—stuck in my throat. Instead, I forced a smile and said, “I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”
I left before I could change my mind. My old vehicle rumbled down the street, and the kids faded from my rearview mirror through my tears. In the window, my ex-wife’s quiet silhouette lingered; even though we’d divorced, she knew me well enough to see my true feelings.
An hour later, I checked in with the rest of the squad at base. Everyone acted as if it was just another routine assignment. I half-expected someone to say, “Don’t worry, you’ll make it home safe,” but no one did. We’d all heard too many stories of one-night mission failures. Tensions had been rising in the region for months, and we were warned that things could get messy. We were a rapid support team—quick, but not always safe.
That first night, I gripped my dog tags so tightly they left marks on my palm. Every time panic threatened to overwhelm me, I pictured my kids: Amari building volcanoes for his science fair, Jasira singing to her teddy, Mateo chasing his shadow in the yard. Their birthday celebrations—cutting cake, clapping, snapping photos—became my armor.
When we landed, hot desert air and dust greeted us. The base camp was a jumble of tents, barriers, and barbed wire. I adjusted to cramped quarters, early wake-ups, and rigorous exercises, all while keeping alert. Despite our mission to maintain calm, reports of local insurgent groups and unpredictable checkpoint skirmishes kept everyone on edge.
A few weeks into the mission, I received a handwritten letter from Amari—an old-fashioned note, not an email. He was frustrated with his science teacher’s tight deadline and wondered if LED lights in his volcano crater would look cool. I laughed out loud in the mess hall reading his message. Jasira had doodled a pink heart in the corner, and Mateo’s scribble—maybe a spaceship or simply “I miss you”—made my heart ache.
I wrote back with encouragement, deliberately omitting the mortar attacks near our tent and the sleepless nights. I couldn’t risk adding more secrets to my already heavy load; I had to protect them from worry.
Weeks passed, and our short mission was extended as new orders came in. The weight of uncertainty pressed on us all. I grew close to a fellow serviceman, Roman, a kind man with two daughters from a small Oklahoma town. We exchanged stories to lift our spirits—Roman shared photos of his girls in softball uniforms, and I showed him a picture of my three kids hugging in similar outfits. It hurt to look at, but it kept me going.
Then one morning, everything went wrong. On a routine patrol near a familiar community, sudden fire from the slopes trapped us. At first, the conflict was mild—we took cover behind a crumbling wall as dust and bullets filled the air, my heart pounding so fiercely it felt like it would burst. I recall Roman shouting, “We gotta move, man! We can’t stay here!” Fueled by adrenaline, we scrambled behind rock piles. Then an RPG exploded nearby; I hit the ground hard, my shoulder absorbing the impact. In that moment, I wondered if I was dying—who would tuck my kids in? Who would drive them to school?
Thankfully, my shoulder wound wasn’t fatal. With Roman’s help, we found cover until backup arrived, and the attackers eventually retreated. I was evacuated and taken for surgery; the doctor warned it would take weeks or months to regain full mobility before I could go home.
As I lay in recovery, I thought, “I’m heading home.” Despite the pain, relief washed over me at the thought of reuniting with my kids sooner than I’d imagined. Yet guilt gnawed at me—I felt bad leaving Roman and the squad behind. Part of me wanted to stay until everyone was safe, but I was too injured to continue active duty. Medical personnel escorted me out, and on the flight home, a nurse helped me with my bandaged shoulder and a rattling bottle of ibuprofen in my bag.
During the journey, I wrestled with what to tell my kids about my early return and my injured arm. Should I reveal everything or continue softening the truth? I remembered the farewell notes in my closet and the updated will, and realized I’d been living as if tomorrow didn’t exist—never admitting how terrified I truly was. Was that fair to them?
When I finally arrived at the local airport, I saw my ex-wife waiting at the security gate. Amari bounced excitedly, Jasira clutched her plush giraffe, and Mateo waved a homemade “Welcome Home, Daddy!” sign in bright, childish letters. My knees nearly buckled. Would my injury frighten them? They ignored my sling and enveloped me in hugs, clinging as if they never wanted to let go.
Amari asked, “Daddy, you’re home early. Will you come to my science fair?”
I choked back emotion and replied, “I’m home for good, my friend. I might have to go back, but for now, I’m yours.” They held me tightly. My ex-wife stepped forward, her eyes a mix of relief and quiet reproach—as if to say, “I told you not to worry them,” yet also “I’m so glad you’re safe.” She nodded and led us to the car.
That night, after tucking the kids in, Mateo asked if we could go to the beach, Jasira wondered if I missed her as much as she missed me, and Amari simply said, “I’m glad you didn’t die.” I knew then how close I’d come to losing them, and it broke me in both the best and worst ways.
Days later, I found those farewell letters hidden in my closet. I shredded them. I wanted to start over—with less deception and more honesty—not because I was unaware of my job’s dangers, but because my kids deserved the truth. I wouldn’t tell them terrifying stories, but I wouldn’t lie either. They deserved to face life as it really is, not a sanitized version.
We later went to Amari’s science fair. His volcano, complete with LED lights, bubbled with colorful foam as the judges cheered. Jasira clapped and shrieked when the “lava” oozed out, and Mateo captured every moment on my phone. For the first time in a long while, I felt hope instead of fear or regret.
This journey taught me that we never know how much time we have with the ones we love. Honesty and love must go hand in hand. We shouldn’t hide our burdens or pretend they don’t exist. True strength comes from being vulnerable, opening up to those we trust, and believing they’ll stand by us through the hardest times.
My physical and emotional recovery continues, but whenever I hear my kids laughing from another room, I thank every star that I made it back. I might have lied when I left, but now I have a second chance to live honestly—and I won’t waste it.
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