When I reached him, he took my hand. His grip was warm, a grounding force in a world that was tilting on its axis.
The Navy Chaplain, a man who had seen combat in Fallujah and understood the nature of sacrifice, began to speak. He spoke of loyalty, of endurance, of commitment in the face of adversity. I almost laughed—a bitter, silent thing that died in my throat. I had sworn my loyalty to my country. I had sworn my life to my team. But the blood oath—the family I was born into—where was that loyalty?
“I’m here,” David whispered, so low only I could hear. “And right now, that is the only truth that matters.”
“I do,” I said. My voice was clear, steady, cutting through the humid air of the church. I held back the tears with a rigid military discipline. You do not break down. You do not cry when you are cold, exhausted, or starving. And you absolutely do not cry in front of your subordinates. My team was in the fourth row. I was their Commander. I would not—I could not—fall apart.
But as we walked back down the aisle, married, past those three empty rows of white ribbons, I felt something inside me fracture. It wasn’t my resolve. It was my hope.
