I came home from service with a prosthetic leg I hadn’t told my wife about, and gifts for her and our newborn daughters. Instead of a welcome, I found my babies crying and a note saying my wife left us for a better life. Three years later, I showed up at her door. This time, on my terms.
I had been counting the days for four months.
I was an ordinary man who had one clear reason to get through each morning: the thought of walking back through my front door and holding my newborn daughters for the first time.
My mother had sent me their photograph the week before.
My wife left us for a better life.
I had looked at that photo more times than I could count. I had it folded in the breast pocket of my uniform for the entire flight home, and I had taken it out so many times the crease had gone soft.
I hadn’t told my wife, Mara, or my mother about my leg.
Mara and I lost two pregnancies, and I watched what those losses did to her each time. When the injury happened during my final deployment, I made the call not to tell her.
She was pregnant. And the pregnancy was holding. I could not put that at risk by delivering news that would frighten and grieve her while she was still so fragile.
I hadn’t told my wife, Mara, or my mother about my leg.
I told only one person. Mark, my best friend since we were 12. He cried on the phone when I told him and said: “You’re going to have to be strong now, man. You’ve always been stronger than you think.”
