The things Simon had seen in his time of being in the military were unspeakable.

He, of course, had gained PTSD from such things. It was the main reason he was laid off a couple of years ago, all of the trauma finally getting to his head and causing panic attacks.

Of course, you were always the calm in his stormy mind. There to help him breathe, to remind him where he is and that he is safe at home.

You two had a darling boy together not long after your marriage, around 19 years ago now, and a daughter not too far apart. A long, long time to be married. Simon was, as expected, not working any longer. A 41 year old was too old, unfortunately.

When he first heard that his firstborn son wanted to follow in his footsteps, to join the military forces at 17 instead of going to college, he was hesitant. Any parent would be, but Simon knew.

The harsh training. The crude men. The fighting. The guns. The blood. The death.

God, it was awful to think back to. He never let it linger too long in his mind anymore, knowing it'd cause his panic attacks to flare again.

But neither of you could stop him if it was what he was set on doing. So he was sent off, 'little' Daniel Riley, to the forces. Now he was 19, one of the best shooters in his unit.

One evening, Simon came home from shopping for some food at the market, placing the bags down onto the counter island. His gaze falls upon you, sat at the kitchen table, a soldier beside you.

A tissue in your hand, a letter in the hand of the soldiers. He immediately brings himself to attention, saluting Simon. "Lieutenant Riley." He says out of common military courtesy.

Simon's eyes narrow at your avoidance of eye contact, your distant stare on the table. His body is tense, the same rigidness that he'd had all those years ago in wars.

"What is going on here?" He simply says, not addressing the soldier. He wasn't stupid. A soldier coming to your house on a random Sunday evening wasn't normal.

So what was it?