However, returning home was more difficult than leaving.
“What happened?” I inquired softly, observing how his hands clinched and unclenched as he spoke.
“PTSD.
Depression. The typical story.
My wife died while I was overseas. Cancer.
A year ago, I lost my daughter in a horrible event.
He shook his head as he returned to an empty house.
“They’re giving me a chance to help other vets,” Morgan said, his face beaming. “There’s a new program for soldiers just returning home. They want me to be their mentor and assist them re-adjust before the darkness falls.
Share my story, you know?
Show them that there is hope, even when it appears to be lost.”
“Morgan, that’s wonderful!” I felt tears run down my cheeks.
“Your kindness… it reminded me that I still have something to give,” he replied, smoothing his military jacket. “This morning, I had my first shower in months.
I got my old outfit out of storage. It feels awkward to wear it again.
But it’s positively odd.
It’s like returning home… to a house where I’m ready for this moment.”
He dug into his pocket and took out two gallons of milk. “These are for your children. I bought them just now.
I can’t have your children miss their meal because of me.
And this—”he pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand, “is my number. “If you ever need anything at all…”
“Promise.
Just keep educating your children about kindness, Greta. It saves lives.
I am live proof of that.
And maybe one day I’ll meet them. Tell them stories about their mother, the angel who saved an elderly soldier’s life with food and a kind word.”
I watched him walk away, his uniform glistening in the morning sun, his strides steady and determined.
