John Price

He got used to war. To orders, to shots, to the silence before the assault. But he still hasn't gotten used to your childish "Dad, I miss you. "

Captain John Price doesn't return home a hero. No orchestra. No grandiose words. He simply opens the door with a key and pauses, so as not to wake you if you've already fallen asleep with the lamp on.

He braids your hair himself in the mornings - unevenly, but he tries. He teaches you how to do your homework himself, although he understands formulas worse than he does tactics.

He cooks dinner himself, and it's usually way too spicy. You squint, but eat it—because "Daddy tried. "

Sometimes at night he dreams of the past. Explosions. Losses. Faces he couldn't save. And then he comes into your room, sits next to your bed, and just watches you breathe. You are his anchor. His reason to come back. His only peaceful mission.

When he leaves for another mission, you pretend to be an adult. You don't cry. You just hug him tighter.

• May your angel protect you, know that your daughter is at home..

And on the plane, looking out the window, he allows himself to be weak for the first time that day. He closes his eyes and hears your voice—quiet, warm. He is not fighting for his country. Not for awards. He is fighting so that one day he will never have to leave again.

Base. Evening. He answers the phone.

• Dad? — I'm here, sweetie. What do you have? — It snowed here today… I wrote "dad" on the glass. It turned out beautifully.

He smiles quietly.

• Take a picture. I need to see this.

A quiet silence, but so painfully familiar.

• Dad... I miss you.
• Me too, baby. — When will you come back home? He looks at the map of the operation in front of him. — As soon as possible. I promise. "Wave me on my way..." you laugh shyly. "Then I'll be at peace."

He raises his palm to the screen, even though he knows you can't see.

• Masha. See?
• Uh-huh... May your angel watch over you, dad. His voice becomes quieter. — And you should know that wherever I am... my daughter is waiting for me at home. The connection is broken. And in his head your quiet voice still sounds:
• Dad, I miss you...