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The first time my brother returned home from war, I didn’t ask him much about it. It seemed too intrusive, too personal to force him to relive details he’d likely rather forget.
The second time, I didn’t have to ask. A few months after he returned, he sat across from me, balancing his toddler son on his knee and leveling his gaze on mine.
“I’m still trying to understand the point of us being over there,” he said. “It feels senseless.”
My brother came back weighing 10 pounds less but carrying a weight on his shoulders that was so much more.
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