I’ve been thinking about this for years… decades really. It’s one of those things that just sits there, a dull ache in the background, but sometimes it flares up and I can’t ignore it. Especially at night, when everything’s quiet and I’m just alone with my thoughts. It was a long time ago. I was barely out of basic, just a kid myself, but I had a wife and a baby on the way. Money was tight, always tight. And then my father… well, he got his orders. Had to go. And my mother, she was working too, trying to make ends meet. So, it fell to me. My younger brother and two sisters. Five, seven, and ten years old. Every weeknight, after school, after I got off my shift. I’d pick them up, bring them home, and it was my job to make sure they were fed, homework done, bathed, and in bed. Every night. For almost a year. I remember standing over the stove, trying to make Hamburger Helper stretch for five of us. Or boiling hot dogs. Or just making toast. And they’d be running around, screaming sometimes. And I’d just… snap. I’d yell. Not like the drill sergeants, not that kind of yell, but a sharp, angry bark. “Get in here! Sit down! NOW!” The kind of bark that makes little kids flinch. And they would. They’d get quiet, eyes wide, and do what I said. I guess I thought I was being firm, being disciplined. Like I was taught. Keeping order. But it wasn’t right, was it? A twelve-year-old kid shouldn't have to be the parent. Not like that. I see my grandkids now, all sweet and innocent, and I think about my youngest sister, barely five, looking up at me with those scared eyes. She probably doesn't even remember it. Or maybe she does and just never said anything. We don’t talk about it. None of us do. My father, he never knew the full extent of it, I don’t think. He was just trying to do his duty, serving his country… like I was trying to do mine, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder what it did to them. To me. I tried to do my best, truly. I kept them safe, I kept them fed. But there was no softness, no gentle hand. Just orders, and the expectation of obedience. And I can still hear my own voice sometimes, that sharp, angry edge. It wasn’t fair to them. And it certainly wasn't fair to me either. I just… I don’t know. I just wish I could go back and do it differently. Be someone different. But I was just a kid too, trying to survive. Just like them. And I feel… guilty. For doing what I had to do. Is that crazy? Probably.