Page 18 of Open Secrets
My chest twists, but the fury burns hotter. “This isn’t about your guilt. This is about you choosing the Army over us. Over me. Over her.”
“I didn’t choose!” he roars. “It was the only damn path I had! You think I wanted this life? You think I wanted to miss my children’s births, their milestones—” His voice cracks, his breath stuttering. “I wanted to be there. I wanted it more than anything. But I had orders. And you knew what that meant when you married me.”
I stare at him, breathing hard, tears streaking hot down my face. “What I knew was that we’d be a family. What I didn’t know was that I’d have to be both parents. That I’d have to fight the hospital, fight the insurance, fight death itself—while you were halfway across the world pretending the Army gave a damn about us. About you.”
His eyes flash, raw and wounded. “What?”
“Come on, Lyle,” I choke out, voice splintering. “They don’t give a fuck. Your daughter was in the hospital and they told you to report for duty or be court-martialled. Our daughter needed a miracle, and someone, somewhere decided no—too risky, too experimental. And you still defend them.”
He opens his mouth, shuts it, his shoulders tight like he’s bracing for impact.
I don’t stop. I can’t. “Even now, you say you miss your team, your brothers, your friends—but what about mine? Did you know the wives, the girlfriends, the families of your teammates still don’t have answers? They can’t move on when they don’t even know when or how their husbands died.”
His chest heaves, hands curling into fists, but I keep going, my voice ripping out of me. “Jesus, Lyle—Lorraine can’t even look at her daughter without wondering if her husband died on her birthday. Kim never even got a body to bury. And every time they ask for answers, they’re told no. Classified. Confidential.”
My throat burns, but the words won’t stop. “The Army doesn’t give a damn. Not about them. Not about us. Not about you.”
Lyle staggers back a step, like I’ve knocked the wind out of him. His jaw works, his eyes dark, searching mine for something to hold on to—but there’s nothing left but the truth between us.
“Why didn’t you say any of this before?” he asks, voice raw.
“Because I thought I could do it,” I whisper, running a hand over my face. “Suppress it. The fear, the resentment. Pretend I was fine. But your last deployment? I don’t think I slept a single night without nightmares. Wondering if you were dead, and I had no clue.”
He throws his hands in the air, pacing. “I get it—there are bad parts, there always are. But you’re just focusing on that. They paid for this house, Maria. They paid for our kids’ education. You think we’d have any of this without them?”
“Yes, they did,” I say, nodding, tears still streaking my face. “And before Rain got sick, I thought we were lucky. Blessed, even. That you served in the United States Army. I told myself it was worth it. That all the nights alone, all the missed milestones, were worth something.”
My voice cracks, sharp with fury. “But now? Now that I’ve seen the complete disregard for our lives—for her life—I can’t unsee it. I can’t.”
His chest rises, falls, the fight bleeding into his eyes. “What are you saying?”
I steady myself, my whole-body trembling. “I’m saying I can’t do this anymore.”
The words hang between us, heavy. Neither of us moves. The only sound is our breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the room like smoke.
Then—soft, small—“Mommy?”
I spin toward the doorway. August stands there in his pyjama pants, hair sticking up, clutching his stuffed dinosaur. His voice is groggy but firm. “You’re being loud.”
My heart cracks. “Oh, baby.” I rush over, crouching down to scoop him up, pressing my cheek against his warm hair. “I’m so sorry. Mommy didn’t mean to wake you.”
I carry August back to his room, his small arms looped around my neck, his stuffed dinosaur dragging against the wall as we pass.
In the dim yellow glow of the nightlight, I lower him into bed and pull the blanket up over his chest. He blinks up at me, wide-eyed, too awake now to slip right back into sleep.
“Are you mad at Daddy?” he asks, voice uncertain.
My chest caves. I force a smile that feels brittle. “No, baby. Mommy and Daddy were just… talking too loud.”
“You were yelling.”
I tuck the blanket tighter around him, fingers lingering at his shoulder. “Sometimes when grown-ups get upset, they talk louder than they mean to. But it doesn’t mean the same thing as when you and your brother fight.”
He studies me, quiet, then whispers, “Did I do something wrong?”
The question guts me. “Oh, no, sweetie. Never. This isn’t about you. Not at all.”
His brow furrows, small voice carrying more weight than it should. “Then why are you crying?”
