The C-17 Globemaster touched down at Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst with the kind of bone-jarring jolt that would have bothered me four years ago. Now, after four consecutive deployments across three continents, the turbulence felt like a lullaby. I was thirty-four years old, looked forty, and felt ancient.

My name is Kenneth Dunar. I joined the army at eighteen, chasing a sense of purpose after my father, a decorated Vietnam vet, died from complications of Agent Orange exposure. My mother had remarried quickly—too quickly—to a man who brought a son into our lives.

Michael, two years my junior. He was charming where I was reserved, smooth where I was direct. We had never been close.

Michael had a way of taking shortcuts, of finding the easy path, while I was wired to choose the hard right over the easy wrong. Our mother doted on Michael, maybe because he reminded her less of war and loss. I left for basic training the day after high school graduation and, in many ways, never really came back.

I met Sarah McLean at a veteran’s charity event nine years ago. She’d been volunteering, bright-eyed and eager to “support our troops.” Sarah was beautiful in that conventional, curated way: blonde, perfectly maintained, always camera-ready. Still carrying the psychic weight of my first deployment to Iraq, I had been drawn to her lightness, her apparent normalcy.

She represented everything I thought I was fighting for: the American dream, stability, home. We married within eight months. She was twenty-two; I was twenty-five.

The kids came quickly. Emma, now seven, and Jackson, five. I tried to be present, but the army had other plans.

When you’re good at what you do in Special Operations, they keep sending you back. This last deployment had been the longest: sixteen months in East Africa, training local forces to combat extremist groups. I’d missed Jackson’s first day of kindergarten, Emma’s ballet recital, two Christmases, and, apparently, my wife falling in love with my brother.

I grabbed my duffel from the baggage claim, the familiar weight of my gear a strange comfort. The Philadelphia air hit me as I walked outside—October crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and diesel fuel. I’d arranged my own ride, wanting to surprise Sarah and the kids.

My phone had been off during the final transport protocol. I powered it on in the back of the Uber, watching the screen light up with a cascade of notifications. Forty-three text messages, twenty-seven missed calls.