Chapter 4: The Homefront
I was helping Paul wash the dishes last night when Sergeant Mike knocked on our front door.
It was late enough that the house had already settled into silence. The boys were upstairs getting ready for bed, and the T.V, was humming softly in the living room. Paul had soap up to his elbows when the knocking sounded.
The moment I saw Sergeant Mike standing on the porch, I knew.
Not because of the uniform, or the war going on, but because of the gifts.
A toy drone for our youngest, candy for the boys, flowers for me. Apology gifts. Deployment gifts.
The kind soldiers bring when they’re about to take someone away from their family again.
Paul knew it too.
The Sergeant tried to sound optimistic. He said the war against the Republic had reached a turning point. Said Paul could be “the key to ending it.” That this mission could finally turn the tide in our favor.
I told him no.
I told them both Paul had already given enough for this country.
At first, Paul agreed with me. I could hear it in his voice. He didn’t want to go. But Sergeant Mike kept insisting how important the mission was, how many lives could depend on it.
Paul wasn’t allowed to tell me exactly what he’d be doing, but he promised it would only last a few months.
“In and out,” he said.
The same words he used last time.
The same mission that sent him home with half his body wrapped in bandages and nightmares he still refused to talk about. I reminded him of that, as well as how our youngest cried the first time he saw the scars on his father’s chest.
Reminded him how I spent weeks sleeping beside a hospital bed, wondering if every beep from the machines would be the last.
But even while he argued with me, Paul sounded like he was trying harder to convince himself.
Then he brought up Sergeant Mike. Said he owed him too much. That Mike had saved his life more times than he could count.
That he couldn’t say no to him now.
After that came the promises. The military pay, the bonuses, how we’d never have to worry about money again. How he’d come home a hero.
I hated hearing him say that word.
Hero.
As if that word meant anything to widows. As if medals could tuck children into bed at night.
This morning, I accepted that I wasn’t going to change his mind.
The boys hugged him before sunrise.
Our youngest wouldn’t let go of his leg.
Our oldest tried to act strong, even though his lips kept trembling.
Then he handed Paul an orange handkerchief I knitted years ago. It was bright orange because Paul always joked that if he ever got lost somewhere, that ugly color would help people find him.
Paul laughed when he saw it, or at least he tried to.
I kissed him goodbye afterward, but I can barely remember his face through all the tears. The only thing I remember clearly is how tightly he held me.
Paul never cried like that.
Not when his father died, not after surgeries, not even during the worst years of the war.
But when he walked toward that military truck… I saw him wipe his eyes.
And somehow that terrified me more than anything else.
So here I am now, alone at the kitchen table, writing down my thoughts while the house sleeps around me.
Trying to prepare myself for the very real possibility that my husband is never coming home.
It’s been a few months since Dad left for the war.
At first, he sent letters every week.
Then every few weeks.
Then nothing.
The paychecks stopped too.
Mom tried not to panic when that happened, but I could tell she already knew.
Today, Sergeant Mike came back.
The war was over. Our nation won.
That’s what every news station keeps saying.
Victory, peace, triumph.
But none of those words were written on Sergeant Mike’s face when Mom opened the door.
He looked exhausted.
Not physically—though he looked that too.
No… it was something worse.
Like a man carrying something so heavy it was crushing him from the inside.
He could barely look any of us in the eye.
My little brother smiled at first when he saw the uniform. He thought Dad had come home too.
Then Mom saw Sergeant Mike standing there alone.
The look on her face changed instantly; I think she knew before he even spoke.
“Mrs. Reyes…” he began quietly.
That was all it took.
My little brother started crying before the Sergeant even finished telling us Dad was gone.
Mom just stood there frozen.
Like if she didn’t move, maybe the words wouldn’t become real.
The Sergeant said Dad died a hero.
Said his actions helped deliver critical intelligence that won the war. His sacrifice saved countless lives.
I wanted to feel proud.
I really did.
But all I could think was:
“Then why does this hurt so much?”
Mike’s voice shook when he spoke about Dad.
Like every word hurt him to say.
“He loved you all very much,” he said. “Those were among the last things he told me.”
Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something orange.
The handkerchief.
Dad must’ve carried it with him the entire time.
The moment I saw it, I broke down crying too.
Mom asked Sergeant Mike how he knew Dad died.
There was a long silence before he answered.
“I was there.”
His voice almost cracked when he said it.
“He died instantly. He didn’t suffer.”
Mom got angry then.
Not loud at first.
Just… hurt.
She asked him why he brought Dad back into the war after everything he’d already survived.
Why he couldn’t let him stay home with his family.
Sergeant Mike never argued, never even defended himself.
He just stood there and took it.
Honestly… I think he believed every word she said.
Then he told us something unexpected.
Effective immediately, he had resigned from the military.
Just like that.
Like whatever happened there broke something in him for good.
He handed Mom a massive check afterward. Probably more money than our family had ever seen; Dad’s promised compensation.
Mom stared at it for a few seconds before pushing it back toward him.
“We don’t want this money,” she said.
Mike looked like that hurt more than getting shot.
But he nodded anyway.
Before leaving, he apologized to all of us one last time.
Then he looked directly at me and my brother.
“Keep them away from war,” he told Mom quietly. “Don’t let them become like me.”
After that, he walked away down the driveway alone.
I watched him until he disappeared.
For a long time, nobody in the house said anything.
Now it’s nighttime again.
Mom is in her room crying softly when she thinks we can’t hear her.
My little brother finally cried himself to sleep.
As for me, I don’t know what happens next.
I guess now we heal.
Or at least try to.
Then maybe I find a college I can afford with what’s left of Dad’s last military paycheck, so I can start helping this family survive.
Dad died trying to protect us.
Now… I guess it’s my turn.