I promised to return before their birthdays.
Mateo clung to my leg, Jasira half-asleep with her thumb in her mouth, and Amari pretending to be brave despite his shaking lip on the porch in mismatched pajamas.
My ex-wife stayed home. She couldn’t watch. We rarely chat except about the kids, but when I told her I was deployed again, she nodded and muttered, “Don’t tell them too much.”
So I didn’t.
I knelt and said my usual. Be kind to Mom. Aid your sister. Brush teeth. As if on a long work trip, I kept it light. I hid the fact that I had written goodbye notes and put them in a box in closet. I didn’t tell them I changed my will last week.
Amari inquired, “Will you be back for my science fair?”
I said, “I’ll try, buddy.”
I felt heartbroken by their attempts to not cry. As if they knew I needed strength more than tears. I kissed Jasira’s forehead and whispered that she was my favorite girl ever. Mateo and I would go to the beach alone when I returned.
My chest nearly burst open as I glanced at all three of them one more time, my hands still on Amari’s shoulders.
Since my words were trapped in my throat.
To remark, “I don’t know if I’m coming back this time.”
My smile was forced as I said, “I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”
I left before changing my mind. My old vehicle rumbled down the street, and the kids disappeared from my rearview mirror. I couldn’t see much due to weeping. A tiny, immovable shadow of my ex-wife remained in the window. We may have divorced, but she knew me well enough to know my true feelings.
I checked in my gear at the base an hour later with other smiling men and women. Everyone pretended this was another task. I kept expecting someone to say, “Don’t worry, you’ll make it home in one piece,” but no one did. We had heard too many one-night mission failures. Tensions had been rising in the region they were sending us to for months, and we were warned things may turn messy. We went as a rapid support squad—nothing remarkable. In the field, “quick” doesn’t always mean safe.
I clasped my dog tags so tightly that they left a mark on my palm that first night on the cargo plane. Every time I felt panic, I envisioned my kids’ faces: Amari making volcanoes for his science project, Jasira singing to her teddy bunny, and Mateo chasing his shadow in the yard. My mind was always home for their birthdays—cutting the cake, clapping loudly, taking pictures. Image became my armor.
I was hit by hot air when we landed. Dust and stone covered the base camp in the desert. Barriers, tents, and barbed wire were everywhere. I tried to adjust: sleep in cramped quarters, rise up early, do exercises, be attentive. We were there to ensure calm, yet tensions were higher than reported. There were conflicting reports regarding who was safe every day when a local village reported a new insurgent group. A checkpoint conflict could sometimes be resolved quickly. Sometimes one false word could start a firefight. We had no idea which day it was.
A letter arrived after a few weeks. Old-fashioned letter, not email. Shaky handwriting. This was from Amari. He was upset because his science teacher was tight about the fair’s deadline and worried he wouldn’t finish. I was asked if LED lights in the volcano crater would look interesting. I laughed out loud in the mess hall reading that question. He might search his garbage drawer for batteries to impress his teacher. Jasira had drawn a pink crayon heart in the corner. It appeared like Mateo wrote “I miss you.” It may be a spaceship drawing, but I thought it meant “I miss you.”
I replied with encouragement but didn’t disclose the mortar assaults near our tent or the sleepless nights. Adding extra secrets to my rucksack seemed like lying to them. However, I could only protect them by not letting them worry.
Days passed into weeks, and the short mission lasted. New information advised extra time to stabilize the area. Everyone felt the weight of waiting and uncertainty. Roman, a serviceman, became my friend. He had two daughters in his small Oklahoma community. We whispered stories to lift spirits. Roman showed me photos of his girls clowning in softball uniforms. I showed the photo of my three kids hugging in similar clothes. It pained to look, yet it kept me going.
Everything went wrong one morning. We were assigned a regular patrol near a community we had visited dozens of times without incident. However, unexpected fire from the slopes beyond trapped us this time. Initially, the fighting was mild. We hid behind a crumbling wall. The dust formed dense clouds surrounding us. Bullets buzzed past. My heart was racing so fiercely it seemed like it would explode.
I recall Roman shouting, “We gotta move, man!” We can’t stay stuck!” Alive with adrenaline, I nodded. We hurried quickly, dodging behind rock piles to find a way out. Our area was shaken by an RPG explosion. I hit the ground, my shoulder taking the brunt. I wondered whether I was dying in that moment. Who will tuck my kids? Who will drive them to school?
Thank goodness my shoulder wound was not fatal. I was alive despite burning skin. Roman forced me into greater cover while we waited for backup. After our support arrived, the attackers retreated. Field hospitalization followed my evacuation. After surgery, the doctor said it would take weeks or months to restore mobility and I would be released home once stable.
I remember thinking: I’m heading home. Despite the pain, I felt relief. I might see my kids sooner than imagined. There was guilt. I felt odd leaving Roman and the squad behind. Part of me wanted to stay until everyone came home, but I felt I was too sick to return to active duty. Medical personnel escorted my discharge. I was helped on the plane by a nurse. Bandages covered my shoulder, and a bottle of ibuprofen rattled in my bag.
On the way home, I attempted to figure out what to tell my kids about why I was home early and why my arm was in a sling. Should I reveal everything? Continue sugarcoating? I remembered the letters in my closet, the will I had meticulously updated. I realized I’d been living like there was no tomorrow but never told them how afraid I was. Was that fair?
After getting off the plane at the local airport, I saw my ex-wife at the security gate. Amari was excitedly bouncing on his heels, Jasira embracing a plush giraffe, and Mateo waving a homemade sign that read “Welcome Home, Daddy!” in bright, childish script. Knees nearly buckled. Would my injury frighten them? They ignored my sling and jumped into my good arm, squeezing me like they never wanted to let go.
Amari said, “Daddy, you’re home early. Will you attend my scientific fair?
I choked back a lump and said, “I’m home for good, friend. I may need to return, but I’m yours now.”
They gripped me close. My ex-wife stepped forward, eyes filled with relief and also fury, like she wanted to say “I told you not to worry them,” but also “I’m so glad you’re okay.” She nodded before leading us to the car.
I put the kids to bed at home that night. Mateo requested we go to the beach. If I missed her as much as she missed me, Jasira wondered. Amari stared at me and said, “I’m glad you didn’t die.” I understood how close I had come and how much these children needed me, which broke me in the best and worst ways.
I found those goodbye messages in my closet days later. I shredded them. I wanted to start over—less lying, more honesty—not because I in denial about my job’s risks. The kids deserved it. I wouldn’t tell them scary stories, but I wouldn’t lie! I have to believe they could manage real life, not just the sanitized version.
We visited Amari’s science fair. LED lights illuminated his volcano, as expected. It bubbled with colorful foam, and he smiled as the judges cheered. When lava oozed, Jasira clapped and shrieked. Mateo took my phone photo. For the first time in a while, I felt anything other than fear or remorse in my chest. I hoped.
Indeed, we never know how long we have with our loved ones. We cannot foretell life’s turns. But this trip taught me that honesty and love should go together. Don’t carry your troubles alone or pretend to hide them. Being vulnerable, letting people in, and trusting that they’ll stick by you through tough times is strength.
My physical and mental rehabilitation continues. But when I hear my kids laughing from the other room, I thank every star I made it home. I may have lied before leaving, but I have a second chance to improve, which I won’t waste.
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