When my husband was deployed to the Middle East, our family was fortunate to live a forty-minute drive from my parents. After church on Sundays, we, myself and my three daughters: five, three, and 4 months went there for lunch and stay through dinner.

It was hard to leave. At my parents, I felt I could relax, knowing there were other adults on alert. I would curl up on the couch and fall asleep while my dad took the older two to the park, and my mom rocked the baby. It was the best sleep I got all week. Monday morning was school—the structure our week hung on—so I would try to leave by 6ish or 7ish for 8ish bedtime.

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One fall Sunday evening, I left late. It was after bedtime when we arrived back at our quarters on base and it was fully dark. The children were asleep. I pulled up under the large oak tree that overspread our designated parking spot, my tires crunching leaves and acorns. Turning off the car, I stared at the entrance to our house. It was about a hundred yards away. In our scramble to get to church on time, I had neglected to turn on the porch light. It would be difficult to find the keyhole. When this had happened while my husband was here, one of us would sit in the car with the lights on to make it easier. It added another brick to the load of getting three little children into the house alone. I looked at their soft, sleeping faces trying to decide who to carry in first.

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