
When Mommy asked, “Are you home?” I wanted to say “yes,” but I couldn’t.
My daughter’s tiny fingers were digging into my uniform as I held her. Her damp curls stuck to her cheeks, smelling like sunscreen and juice. How much had I missed as she grew? My back sign crinkled as she shifted against me. You call her Soldier, I call her Mom.” Swallowed hard. That title meant…