Free A Hero to Come Home To by Marilyn Pappano

said there was no name—only the number had shown—but he’d misled Carly into thinking he didn’t know who was calling. It was his mother, one of her infrequent calls to check on him that, no matter what was going on, always managed to make him feel worse.
    Turning back to the magazine, he ate and read and, way too often, let his gaze wander across the room. Other than the redhead, her back to him, he couldn’t identify any of the other women by name, though six faces were familiar. Did the four strangers complete the club membership? Just how many wives at Fort Murphy had been widowed by the war?
    Even eleven was too many.
    After finishing his meal, he debated having another drink, but had just decided against it when the women in the corner began the readying that signaled departure. He flagged down the waitress, paid his bill and got carefully to his feet. Carly looked up then, and just a little smile touched her mouth as she nodded once. “I’ll see you around.”
    He nodded, turning away before any of the others could notice him. From the back, most soldiers looked alike, Sheryl used to say.
    It wasn’t until he got home, removed his prosthesis and settled in on the couch that he picked up the phone and dialed his mother’s number.
    “It took you long enough to call me back,” Anna Mae said. If he closed his eyes, he could see her face: remarkably smooth for a woman her age, pretty, the natural blond of her hair maintained with chemicals now, her mouth slightly pursed, the usual look in her blue eyes. He’d never been able to decide whether it was disappointment or disapproval. He did know a great deal of it had to do with him, with his father, with the life she’d gotten versus the one she’d thought she deserved.
    He didn’t close his eyes.
    “I was having dinner.”
    “What, you couldn’t have held the sandwich in one hand and the phone in the other?”
    His skill in the kitchen didn’t extend far beyond sandwiches. She’d never wanted him underfoot when she was cooking, and once he’d gotten married, Sheryl had fixed the meals when they didn’t eat out.
    “What’s up?” Even though these calls were supposedly to check up on him, she never asked how he was, if physical therapy was any easier going, if he’d gotten more comfortable with the new prosthesis. Thinking of his poor leg just made her sad, and she had enough sadness without going looking for it.
    “I just got off the phone with Sheryl a minute before I called. I couldn’t wait to share the good news. She’s pregnant.”
    Dane stared at the darkened television. What was the right response to that? Why tell me? Am I supposed to care? Do you expect me to be glad that my ex-wife who always claimed she wanted my babies is pregnant by another man? And a last uncharitable thought: Is she sure her husband’s the father?
    “Well? Isn’t that wonderful?” Anna Mae sounded as happy and proud as if the baby was her own grandchild.
    He cleared his throat. He wanted to growl, I don’t freaking give a damn , but his father had taught him better. Anna Mae might be pessimistic, perpetually dissatisfied, self-centered, and irritating as hell, but she was his mother, and that had to count for something.
    “Uh, yeah,” he finally managed. “I guess.”
    A smile beamed over the distance. “I’ll tell her you said so. Not that she asks about you much. Not since…well, you know.”
    “Not since I came to after an IED detonated and found out my foot was gone?” he asked drily, then immediately regretted the words.
    “William Dane! You don’t have to talk about it.”
    But the shrinks said he did. So did the therapists and the guys he worked out with. Pretending it didn’t happen didn’t make it so. It wouldn’t grow him a new foot and calf and knee. But if he wanted to pretend it never happened, how could he blame her for doing the same?
    “Sorry, Mom,” he said quickly. “Tell Sheryl whatever you think is appropriate. I, uh, need to