Dear Mark,
It’s hard to believe you’ve been gone for only one night, and yet, I already feel the weight of your absence. As I drove home from work today, it almost slipped my mind that I wouldn’t see your face this evening. A deep sigh escaped me, especially when our son, Ethan, chattered away about wanting to show you his latest masterpiece from school. Another sigh—this time, a little heavier.
These initial days are always the toughest. We’re still adjusting to a new routine, our hearts aching from the goodbyes. There’s an ever-looming anxiety about when we’ll next hear from you, see your smile, or feel your embrace. Today feels particularly hard, perhaps even more so now that Ethan is old enough to sense something is amiss but too young to fully grasp the situation.
Tomorrow, I’ll dive into planning for this deployment, just like I do every time. No matter if it’s a brief stint or a long stretch, a plan always emerges: tidy up, organize, cross off tasks, learn something new. Tomorrow, I’ll get started on all that.
But tonight? Tonight is about quiet reflection. I find myself sipping a glass of Merlot that feels a bit hollow without you here, enveloped in the silence of our home that feels far too empty.
Earlier, I tucked Ethan into bed—yes, our bed (so much for that co-sleeping plan)—and read him three extra stories to help settle his mind, trying to explain that you wouldn’t be home for a while. I’m afraid my words didn’t quite land as I hoped.
From the rocking chair in the corner, I watched him drift off, clutching tightly to your pillow and his favorite toy. He kept one eye open, checking to ensure I was still there beside him.
Tomorrow, I’ll streamline the bedtime routine to make room for the laundry, the dishes, emails, and perhaps even catch up on my favorite show, but tonight, I simply want to relish the memory of you by watching our son sleep in the space you usually fill.
Tomorrow, I’ll worry about the toys left strewn about. Tomorrow, I’ll write that article I’ve been meaning to finish. Tomorrow, I’ll reach out to our community support groups to find out when family meetings take place—so we can connect with others who understand what we’re going through, and so Ethan can play with kids like him who miss their parents.
Tomorrow, I’ll map out my shopping trips to the grocery store and the commissary, squeezing in time for Ethan’s Hula classes and soccer practices. I’ll begin assembling your first care package, sorting through my office, and figuring out meal plans for our picky eater.
Tomorrow, I’ll plan a new fitness routine for myself—twice a day, because you know that’s how I roll. I’ll remember to mow the lawn and water the plants (fingers crossed). I may even attempt to catch up on some shows I’ve set aside while waiting for our time together.
Tomorrow, I’ll make lists—renewing license tags, remembering recycling days, and jotting down cable account numbers. I’ll create ways to keep Ethan connected to you in spirit during these months apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll map out a cleaning schedule to keep myself accountable. I’ll work on finding the right words to explain to Ethan why dinner feels different now that you’re away. I’ll tackle the spaces in our home where I’ll spend the most time, knowing they might drive you a little crazy when you return, but we can always revert back to our usual ways later.
Tomorrow, I’ll relearn what it means to be a solo parent, and while I’ll still miss you, I’ll begin to adjust to this new chapter. But tonight, I’m simply left wishing you were here, counting the months until I can see your face again.
On this first night of your deployment, my love, I sit here missing you deeply but feeling immense gratitude for the sacrifices you make for us. I feel proud to be your partner in this journey, and that will never change. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
Fair winds and following seas, my love. Or as we say around here: Makani ʻOlu a Holo Mālie.
Your devoted partner,
Anna