“I cannot tell you.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I cannot tell you that either.”
Her face tightened as she heard the same boundary she had dismissed for years.
Before the door closed, my father called from the porch.
“You think those people care about you more than we do?”
I looked at the soldier holding the door, the blanket placed across my knees, and the box secured so David’s photographs would not slide during the drive.
“I think they understand the difference between duty and ownership,” I said.
The door shut.
As the convoy pulled away, I watched the mailbox pass the window and felt the first clean break between the life David and I had protected and the version of that life my family had claimed.
I did not feel victorious.
I felt exhausted.
By the time we reached the temporary quarters arranged for me, the adrenaline had drained from my body and left my hands shaking.
