Being far from them.
Carefully, almost instinctively, he reached into the front pocket of his vest. His fingers brushed against something worn and slightly bent at the edges. He pulled it out and held it under the dim light.
A photograph.
It was small, creased from being carried everywhere, but to him it was everything.
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In the picture, his wife smiled warmly, her eyes full of a kind of light that had always grounded him. In her arms, wrapped in a soft blanket, was their baby—tiny, peaceful, unaware of the distance that separated their family.
John stared at it for a long moment, his expression softening.
“This is why,” he whispered quietly to himself.
