I had been counting the days for four months.
An ordinary man with one extraordinary reason to wake up each morning: the thought of walking back through my front door and holding my newborn daughters for the very first time.
A week before, my mother had sent me their photograph. I carried it folded in the breast pocket of my uniform throughout the flight home, pulling it out so often that the crease had softened.
What my mother didn’t know—and what my wife, Mara, didn’t know—was that I was coming home with a prosthetic leg.
When the injury happened during my final deployment, I made the choice not to tell Mara. We had already endured two heartbreaking pregnancy losses, and this time the pregnancy was holding. I couldn’t risk frightening her or adding grief while she was still so fragile.
The only person I confided in was Mark, my best friend since childhood. He cried when I told him and said, “You’re going to have to be strong now, man. You’ve always been stronger than you think.” I believed him without hesitation.
At a small market near the airport, I picked up two hand-knitted yellow sweaters—my mother had mentioned she was decorating the nursery in yellow. Then I bought white flowers, Mara’s favorite. I didn’t call ahead. I wanted the moment to be a surprise.
I imagined the door opening, Mara’s face lighting up, the girls in her arms. I thought nothing could ruin that moment.
I was wrong.
Leave a Comment