After deployment, I found my 7-year-old daughter locked in the garage, weak and covered in bites. “Daddy,” she cried, “Mom’s boyfriend said I belong here
The knock against the garage door was soft, more like the scrape of a frail hand than a noise meant to summon help. I had just stepped from my car, the sand of fifteen months in Afghanistan still clinging to my uniform. My boots hadn’t been on American soil for three hours, and already something…
