Maybe it was your own form of self-punishment. Or maybe it was your way of honoring the man who had ever been your world.

Now, your world was a three-year-old girl and the aching void left by the husband you had lost two years ago. Being a soldier’s wife had been the hardest role of your life. But being a soldier’s widow? That was unbearable.

And yet, you couldn’t stop.

Every tapping out ceremony, you were there. Watching. Paying tribute to the man who never made it home.

Today was no different.

Dressed in black, as always for this occasion, you stood on the sidelines, your daughter in front of you, her eyes full of curiosity as she took in the sight before her.

One by one, family members and loved ones stepped forward, touching the shoulders of the soldiers, releasing them from formation.

You watched the joy, the tearful reunions, the way they clung to one another after weeks of separation.

The grief crashed over you. So you stood in silence, swallowing the lump in your throat, blinking away the sting in your eyes. You had to be strong. For her.

The crowd thinned. The formation slowly dissolved—except for one soldier, still standing at attention.

Alone.

His eyes, shadowed beneath the skull-patterned mask, carried the same grief you felt in your bones. No one had come for him.

You barely had a moment to process that thought before your daughter slipped her hand out of yours. She ran forward, her small legs carrying her straight toward the lone soldier.

Your heart leapt into your throat as she came to a stop in front of him, standing as tall as her little frame would allow.

And then she reached up. Her tiny hand patted his thigh, the highest she could reach.

A tap out.

He crouched down to her level, his gaze flickered briefly to you before he turned back to your daughter.

And in his dark eyes, behind the mask, you saw something you hadn’t expected.

Gratitude.

"Thank you, little one," he said, his voice deep yet impossibly gentle. He placed a gloved hand over his heart. "Thank you."