When I asked my daughter about the $2,000 I’d been sending her every month, she looked confused and said, “What money?” My parents instantly went pale…

The military had always been my backup plan. My father had served, and though our relationship was complicated, I respected his service. With Daniel gone, the stability of military healthcare and education benefits became increasingly appealing.

I enlisted as a combat medic, combining my passion for healthcare with service. The pay was decent, and the structure gave Emma and me something we desperately needed after losing Daniel—predictability. For three years, I managed to avoid overseas deployment.

My unit commander understood my situation and kept me stateside. Emma and I settled into a rhythm. We lived near base in a small apartment.

She made friends at school, joined the soccer team, and slowly her smile returned. Each night I would help her with homework, and on weekends we would have movie marathons or go hiking—we were healing together. Then came the orders I had been dreading.

My medical unit was being deployed to a conflict zone for nine months. My stomach dropped when I received the notification. Emma was 13 now, growing into her own person, navigating the complexities of adolescence.

This was exactly when she needed her mother most. My parents lived in our hometown about two hours from base. They had retired early after my father sold his successful construction business.

Their relationship with Emma had always been loving but distant—holiday visits, occasional weekends. My mother adored Emma but struggled with the energy a young teenager required. My father was gentle with her, in a way he never had been with me.

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