I thought coming home would feel like an ending — like I’d crossed some invisible finish line. There were banners, applause, hugs that lasted too long, and the relief on my wife’s face when she first saw me at the airport. My kids clung to my legs like they were afraid I’d vanish again. For a moment, I believed I had finally arrived at peace.
But that was just the first day.
The next morning, I woke up in a bed that was too soft. The house was too quiet. The air didn’t smell like diesel fuel or sand or sweat — it smelled like pancakes and laundry detergent. It should have been comforting. Instead, I felt out of place. Like I had wandered onto a movie set where everyone knew their lines but me.
People kept saying, “It’s so good to have you back,” and I’d smile and nod, pretending I agreed. But the truth is, I didn’t feel back. Not really. My body was home, sure. But my mind was still scanning rooftops and alleys. Still listening for the low thump of something gone wrong.
The hardest part wasn’t what people think — it wasn’t the nightmares or even the silence in the middle of the night. It was trying to be the person they remembered.
My son handed me his Lego tank and asked me to play. I stared at it too long. My wife asked if I was okay, and I said yes — too quickly. She knew I was lying. So did I.
Some days I wanted to be left alone. Other days, I hated that no one asked how I really was. Not the polite version, but the real question: Are you still carrying it?
The answer was yes.
But I’m learning. Slowly. My daughter likes to sit beside me in the evenings, her small hand resting on mine without saying a word. That’s enough sometimes. I go on long walks, even if I don’t have a destination. I breathe. I try.
And when someone thanks me for my service, I say, “Thank you.” But what I really mean is: Please don’t forget what it cost.
Because coming home wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of a different kind of war — one that I’m still fighting, quietly, every day.
