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.
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