As I stood by Meadow’s side, watching the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, every fiber of my being tensed with the anger and resolve that only a mother—and a soldier—can know. Memories of the battlefield flooded back, images of moments when I had to act decisively, when lives hung in the balance. But this was different. This was my daughter. My Meadow. There would be no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Once I was assured that Meadow would be stable, I slipped outside the hospital room, the cool air of the corridor doing little to quell the heat of my anger. The sterile smell of antiseptic stung my nose as my thoughts crystallized into a singular focus—justice. I had faced enemies before, but this was personal. This enemy had a familiar face, one I had once loved and trusted.
