“Visit me when you return from the warfront. You will tell me all your stories.” It’s her way of making me promise to return home alive and safe, a promise we both know I can never be sure to keep. But I bow my head anyway. The truth is, for the past few weeks, when I’ve struggled to find a reason to get up every morning, I think of my mother. I think of this tiny home. And I always push myself out of bed. “I will, Ma,” I reply.
