Page 24 of Returned Mail

“Six months.”

Six months?

Six more months?

Six months on top of the seven?

That’s thirteen fucking months. That’s more than a year.

I close my eyes. Trying to breathe, not to scream. Trying not to cry harder. Trying not to become the person I've spent months trying not to be. The angry military wife-to-be. The bitter one. The exhausted one who resents the uniform, and the flag, and every goddamn thank-you-for-your-service from strangers who have no idea what it costs. But maybe I already am.

“Monica?” His voice is small. Broken.

I don't answer. Because if I do, I'll say something cruel. Something unfair. Something I'll regret.

“I'm sorry.”

That breaks me. Not the extension, not the deployment. The apology. Because it reminds me this isn't his fault. And that makes it worse. There's no one to be angry at. No one clear, anyway. The military, the mission, the government, the endless, faceless thing that keeps taking him. And, in the ugliest part of me, him. For still being willing to go. For loving something that keeps destroying us.

“I was almost home,” he says.

His voice cracks completely now.

“I know.”

And suddenly he's crying too. I've seen George cry twice in all the years I've known him. Tonight makes three. The sound of it destroys me because now I'm not just carrying my grief. I'm carrying his too. “I wanted to come home.”

I press my hand over my mouth, trying to hold myself together. Trying and failing. “I know.”

The next email arrives three days later.

I've barely slept. Barely eaten. Barely functioned. I called in sick to work and spent 72 hours on the couch, staring at the ceiling, crying until there was nothing left.

From: George

Subject: Letters

Monica,

Things changed again. We're moving locations, and communication will be limited.

I don't know how often I'll have internet. Maybe not at all.

I don't want you to panic if you don't hear from me. I'm okay. I will be okay. I promise.

I talked to one of the guys in logistics. He said sending mail is still possible. Not often and not fast. But possible. So I'm going to write real letters like an old man.

I know you're tired. I know this has been hard. Harder than I probably understand.

But please, keep writing to me. Even if I can't answer right away. Tell me everything. The boring stuff. The hard stuff. The things you're afraid to say. I'll read every word.

I love you,

-George

I stare at the screen, reading the email again and again. Until the words blur, my eyes burn, and I can't see anymore.

God, I'm tired.