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 more to me than rank or medal. However, I wasn’t sure how long I’d have it.She retreated to look at me, her large eyes probing. Mommy, you home?
I wished to agree. My God, I wanted. Orders in my bag said differently.The house smelled like cinnamon and laundry. My mom—her grandma—held down the fort while I was deployed. Her eyes were gentle but guarded as she wiped her hands on a dish towel in the kitchen doorway. She knew. Her knowledge was constant.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice steady but unclear. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Lila, my daughter, grabbed my hand. Come see my room, Mommy! A new bedspread arrived. Purple—your favorite!”My boots heavy on the hardwood floor, I let her take me down the corridor. Drawings on the walls, cuddly animals on the bed, and a desk full of crayons and paper made her room bright. I smiled at the star-covered purple blanket. She recalled.
“It’s beautiful, Lila,” I replied, sitting on her bed. Her petite frame fit wonderfully in my lap as she climbed in. Do you draw all these pictures?
She nodded proudly. “That one’s you,” she added, pointing to a stick figure in a uniform clutching a flag. And I am. That’s Grandma. That’s Dad.”Heart clenched. Daddy. He disappeared three years ago in a vehicle accident before my previous deployment. Lila was too little to remember, but she carried a tiny copy of his photo in her backpack.
“I missed you, Mommy,” she whimpered, breaking me.
I missed you, baby. More than anything.”Dinner was quiet, like it was holding its breath. Lila talked about school and her friends, but I could feel my mom watching me. After Lila fell asleep with her small hand gripping mine, I joined my mom in the living room.
She murmured softly, “How long?”
I gave her the orders from my backpack. Her lips formed a thin line as she read them slowly. Another six months?
However bitter, I answered, “They need me.” The mission is vital. I have no choice.”
She groaned, putting the papers away. You always have options, honey. However, I understand your perspective. Make sure it’s worth it.”
The next morning, I took Lila to the park. Her laughter rang like music as she ran. She confidently climbed the jungle gym. She was courageous and lively. How could I leave her again?
Hanging upside down from the monkey bars, she called, “Mommy, watch me!”
My voice caught as I continued, “I’m watching, sweetheart.” “You amaze me.”
She grabbed my hand on the way home. Will you read me a tale tonight, Mommy?
“Of course,” I squeezed her fingers. “Anything you want.”
But as I tucked her in that night, she stared at me with those large, serious eyes. Mommy, are you leaving again?
I froze. How could she know? I didn’t speak.
“I must leave for a while,” I remarked cautiously. “But I’ll return. I assure you.”
Despite trembling lips, she nodded. “Okay. Keep me in mind.”
“Lila, I never forgot you. Never.”
The days flew by. I tried to enjoy every moment—helping her with homework, baking cookies, even watching cartoons on the couch. The weight of what was coming hovered over me like a storm cloud.
The night before I went, I watched her sleep from her bed edge. With her beloved bunny beneath her arm, her curls spread on the pillow. I stroked her cheek to remember her skin and breathing.
“I love you, Lila,” I whispered. More than anything else.”
This deployment was harder. The days and nights were lengthy. My pocket held her paintings, which I pulled out when loneliness threatened to devour me. I called when I could, her voice providing life through the static.
But halfway through, something happened. A mission went wrong, injuring me. Not life-threatening, but enough to send me home early. I kept it a secret to surprise them.
Lila was building a block tower in the living room when I entered. She paused, staring up. Then she ran, arms spread.
“Mommy! Your home!”She smashed into me, and I kneeled to catch her. Her laughing was the loveliest I’d heard.
I said, “I’m home, baby,” crying. I’m home.”
She smiled brightly at me when I put her to bed that night. “You kept your promise, Mommy.”
“I did,” I kissed her forehead. “I always will.”
Life is imperfect. There are still hurdles and times when it all feels too much. I recall why I do what I do every time I see Lila. For her. For us.
The twist? Not just me returning home. It was about recognizing that home is the people that love, wait for, and trust in you no matter what. Sometimes it’s bravest to let them be your strength.
Life Lesson: Love draws you back no matter how distant or arduous the journey. Cherish the moments, keep the people that matter, and remember that home is where the heart is.
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