I was two years old when I first saw my father leave. I was tugging on to my mother’s skirt, as it flew to the side because of the powerful whirring of the plane’s engines. Tears welling in her big blue eyes, my mother sobbed quietly. My father had given her a kiss and told her he would be alright. I remember him picking me up and promising that he would be back soon. However, even at that age, I knew most of the promises we make aren’t meant to be kept. I’m thirteen years old now. Father did come back—but left again. Every time, right before he left, he would do the same thing: make a promise that he will be back soon. This occurred on so many occasions that I eventually lost count and resigned myself to a life without a father. Over that long decade, my mother had molded herself into a strong, impregnable brick wall. Nothing could hurt or prevent her from keeping our small, broken—perhaps very broken—family together. 
    I stare at the television screen, my heart racing. The news anchor revealed, “52 U.S. Soldiers Killed in Kabul Massacre! Death Toll Rises as We Speak!” Just then my mother steps inside.
           “Hi honey, how was sch—”
She had just looked at the television screen. Her face drained of all color, mother stood still and in shock. Father had survived rocket attacks on his platoon, gunfire, roadside bombs, but I wasn’t sure if he could survive hundreds of armed men barging into his base with the intention of causing as many casualties as possible. These were hardened criminals with massacre on their minds. They had bombs strapped to their chests and were going to kill, even if it meant that they would die themselves! At this point, in my heart, I had a small inkling that his promise would slowly unravel.
***
It has been three days since we heard about the attack on the base. My mother has been frantically searching for some information, hoping against hope that my dad is okay. Though the sadness in her big blue eyes gave it all away. Finally, the army releases the names of the deceased and the survivors, but my father’s name, “Sgt. Brian Callahan” is not on either list. My grandparents (both pairs) came as soon as they heard. They have helped my mother over the years in every possible way. Last couple of nights seem to be very long, dark and silent, the silence only intermittently broken by the whimpering I hear from mother’s bedroom. Remember the brick wall I mentioned earlier? This incident took a large, heavy metal hammer and shattered the wall. Once again, my mother had fallen sick. The only person she wanted to talk to about Sgt. Brian Callahan’s disappearance was Sgt. Brian Callahan. My mother needs to stop depending on my father so much.
***
My grandmother has finally convinced my mother to go to a local Army Wives Support Group. She says her own situation makes her so depressed that going to a Support Group to hear others would just make it worse. I don’t know how logical that answer is, or maybe it is just another excuse she is making to shut herself off from the world around her. Either ways it is very distressing for me. It’s been a few weeks since the attack, and we still have no information or updates on anything. The massacre left many dead and others severely injured. That is all we have. Army Headquarters are still struggling with obtaining information because of the large scale destruction to its communication network on the ground. Some small bits and pieces of numerous news stories on TV give us little hope, such as: “many have escaped in helicopters to bases outside of Afghanistan” or “many have died, but a large number of survivors are being flown to Army hospitals in Germany.”
***
I took this time to learn a little more about my father and about his relationship with my mother. My grandfather took it upon himself to help me understand who my father was. I think it also helped ease the pain of uncertainty for both of us. He drove me to his house, which was about an hour away from Sloatsburg. He pulled out a box labeled, ‘memories’. I picked up a small green picture album. In it were pictures of dad when he was very young. Most of the pictures are from my grandparents’ old farm. I also saw my Aunt Marie in some pictures. I’ve never seen her before. With a voice that betrayed his true emotion, grandfather told me she had run away with her boyfriend when she was eighteen. They never saw or heard from her again.
***
My father loved football. I could see him with a football in every picture. My grandfather told me my father lived for the game. I got to his middle and high school yearbooks, and obviously saw him in every sports team picture. I was starting to get the impression that he was a popular jock. I saw my mother in a few pictures; she was the science club president. I moved onto the high school yearbook.  I could tell my father was extremely popular. He was on every page, the local hero on the winning football team. And there was my mother, still the head of the science and mathematics club. To my surprise, I saw my father with my mother in the prom pages. They went together. My father was quite handsome; he was tall and muscular with a twinkle in his eyes and a dimple on his cheek. My mom, on the other hand, was a shy, skinny girl with big blue eyes and long beautiful hair. They were so different from each other but, I thought they looked beautiful together. Grandfather told me they got engaged right after they graduated. My mother looked so happy and healthy in those pictures. All these years, I had hated my father, holding him responsible for my mom’s loneliness and pain. But really, my father had always been her first and only love. The other thing that baffled me was that my father had so many opportunities to play college football, yet he left to join the Marines. Grandfather didn’t understand either. Who would want to escape the intensely glorified world of college football and a possible career in the NFL to be a soldier in the U.S. Army? I saw many more things, like letters my father would write to my mother, certificates, newspaper clippings and reports, trophies from games, etc. I always knew who my father was on the outside. But I wanted to know who he was on the inside, the side he had kept hidden for so long. What made him fall in love with the skinny, awkward girl who was president of the science club? Only my mother could answer that. And I don’t know if she’d be willing to at this time.
***
           Mother is back from the support group. She didn’t talk much about it. Grandmother made dinner today, and we are getting ready for bed. As I lay down, I pray to God that he brings my father back. So my mother can be okay. So my grandparents can be okay. So that I can get a chance to know the father I didn’t know, a chance to learn from him and hopefully understand him better. I want a chance to be a proud daughter. Wherever he is, I hope he is safe and comes back home a hero, like he always has been, for his football team, his Army platoon, his wife, his family and his nation.