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.
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.
