Summary
On the night I planned to tell my husband I was pregnant, I heard him tell his commanding officer I was never his wife – I was his mission, and the mission was over.
“Asset is stable. No emotional complications. She suspects nothing.”
“And when we pull the plug?” the voice on the phone asked.
“She’ll be reassigned to civilian life. Standard separation protocol. She gets a pension and a thank-you letter.”
Commander Ryan Hale – Navy SEAL, Silver Star recipient, the man who had carried me out of a bombed-out field hospital in Kandahar, who had proposed to me under a sky full of stars while my hands were still shaking from surgery – was sitting in our kitchen in San Diego, debriefing my disposal like I was surplus equipment.
I stood frozen in the hallway, barefoot, one hand on the wall, the other pressed against the pregnancy test in the pocket of my robe.
Eight weeks. I was eight weeks pregnant.