I had been counting the days for four long months.
I was an ordinary man who had one clear reason to get through each grueling morning: the thought of walking back through my front door and holding my newborn daughters for the very first time.
My mother had sent me their photograph the week before.
I had looked at that photo more times than I could count. I kept it neatly folded in the breast pocket of my uniform for the entire flight home, taking it out so often that the paper creases had gone soft and worn.
I hadn’t told my wife, Brenda, or my mother about my leg.
Brenda and I had previously suffered the grief of two lost pregnancies, and I had watched how deeply those losses shattered her spirit. When the injury happened during my final deployment, I made the hard decision not to tell her right away.
