Chapter 8 - CHRISTMAS AT FORT BLACKWOOD
Three years after the Christmas exile, I spent December 25 at Fort Blackwood again.
Not because my family threw me out.
Because I volunteered.
Several junior officers had small children.
I had none.
I covered duty.
At noon, Colonel Hayes walked into headquarters carrying a foil-covered tray.
“What is that?”
“Your mother.”
I stared.
“My mother is in the building?”
“No.”
“She sent food.”
I opened the foil.
Turkey.
Stuffing.
Pie.
And a note.
YOU MISSED CHRISTMAS DINNER. THIS IS NOT A NEGOTIATION. — MOM
I laughed.
Then another vehicle arrived at the gate.
Savannah.
Visitor pass.
Two boxes of cookies.
“Why are you here?”
“To see the loser at the barracks.”
I stared.
She smiled.
“Too soon?”
“Three years.”
“So?”
I hugged her.
She had changed.
So had I.
Her career was going well.
She was dating someone named Marcus Bell, a high-school history teacher.
When she told Dad he drove a Subaru, Dad almost required medical assistance.
Marcus knew nothing about Palmer’s valuation.
Excellent sign.
Savannah and I ate Christmas lunch with soldiers and families.
Nobody cared about our family story.
I liked that.
At one table, a young specialist was video calling his parents overseas.
At another, a captain held a sleeping infant while eating with one hand.
Normal Army Christmas.
Not tragic.
Not heroic.
Just people making things work.
Savannah watched.
Then whispered:
“I think I get it now.”
“What?”
“Why you stayed.”
I looked around.
“Partly.”
Then:
“You know, we thought the Army took you away from us.”
I waited.
“Maybe we stopped making home worth coming back to.”
That one hurt.
I squeezed her hand.
“We can do better.”
May you like
She nodded.
We did.
