Upon arrival in Dallas, my fiancé, Kenny, told me he’d left some messages for me on the answering machine. A small, broken and barely recognizable voice crackled out, “K-e-h-e-nny, w-would you c-call meeee?” I breathed a sigh of relief. My mother’s claim that she would be dead by the time I returned from Afghanistan did not come true. She’s OK.
We’re all OK.