“I do,” I said. My voice was clear, steady, cutting through the humid air of the church. I held back the tears with a rigid military discipline. You do not break down. You do not cry when you are cold, exhausted, or starving. And you absolutely do not cry in front of your subordinates. My team was in the fourth row. I was their Commander. I would not—I could not—fall apart.
But as we walked back down the aisle, married, past those three empty rows of white ribbons, I felt something inside me fracture. It wasn’t my resolve. It was my hope.
The reception was held at a venue overlooking the Norfolk Harbor. The sun was setting, casting a golden light over the water where the grey hulls of destroyers were docked at the naval base.
David’s family was wonderful. His mother, a woman who smelled of Chanel No. 5 and unconditional love, pulled me into a hug that threatened to crack my ribs. “You have us now, Nola,” she whispered. “You’re our daughter now.”
She meant it kindly, but her words felt like a knife twisting in my gut. Her kindness only magnified the gaping hole my own parents had left. I spent two hours smiling until my face ached. I danced. I laughed at speeches. But a small, stupid, childish part of me kept glancing at the main entrance, hoping to see my father rush in, blaming traffic on I-64.
They never came.
Later that night, in the hotel suite overlooking the harbor, the silence finally caught up with me. My phone sat on the nightstand, a black brick of rejection. No missed calls. No “Congratulations.” No “We’re sorry.”
David found me standing by the window, staring at the silhouette of the USS Wisconsin. He wrapped his arms around me from behind.
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