Claire pressed her back against the wall, her chin tilting upward in defiance.

“Andrew did what he had to do to keep us afloat,” Claire said.

“The cost of living on this base is higher than you think.”

“We had appearances to maintain as the deputy command family.”

My father ignored her, his fingers turning to the next section of the folder.

These were physical letters, photocopied and arranged in chronological order.

They were letters I had written by hand during my tour in Afghanistan, addressed to my parents’ home in Ohio.

“I never saw these,” my father said, his voice cracking as he touched the image of my handwriting.

“Andrew volunteered to pick up your mail while you were visiting Claire in Texas,” I said.

“He told you the mail carrier must have lost my letters due to the APO system.”

“In reality, he kept them in a filing cabinet in his basement office.”

My father read the words I had written years ago, detailing my fear during the mortar attacks in Bagram.

He read my questions about his health, and my apologies for not being able to call more often.