The mall felt especially noisy, though Saturdays usually were. I ended up parking much farther away than I wanted—the closer spaces were already full. I made my way through the crowd slowly, easing my weight off my prosthetic as I walked. The skin behind my knee was raw again, irritated from the constant friction.
Standing in line with the doll tucked against my side, my eyes drifted to a display of children’s backpacks—bright colors, cartoon animals, shiny zippers. Something about the waiting, the dull ache in what was left of my leg, pulled my thoughts backward.
I was twenty-five when it happened. My second deployment. One moment I was crossing a dusty road in a small village with my unit, and the next there was an explosion—heat, fire, metal screaming through the air. Later, they told me the medic almost lost me in the chaos of dust and blood.
Recovery was long and brutal. I had to relearn how to stand, how to balance, how to exist in a body that no longer felt like mine. Some days I hated the prosthetic so much I wanted to throw it out the window and disappear. Some days, I nearly did.
But Jess was there when I came home. I still remember how her hands trembled when she first saw me. “We’ll figure this out,” she whispered. “We always do.” And somehow, we did. We married, had Evie not long after, and built a life that felt solid—earned.
Still, a memory surfaced of Jess catching sight of my leg after a long day and turning away just a little too fast. I told myself it was only hard for her—the swelling, the angry skin, the antiseptic smell. I never let myself doubt her love. Not truly.
“Next!” the cashier called, pulling me back to the present. By the time I got home, the sun was sinking behind the trees.
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