I’d always loved the endings of books; that moment where everything falls quiet and you can shut your eyes and absorb all of the magical that just pranced across the pages. The beginnings were always filled with mundane introductions and hours of exposition, and the middle was usually too action packed to have subtlety and meaning, but the end? I’d never read a bad ending.
My father taught me that. Ever since I was a little girl he would spend hours each night reading me every type of story imaginable: we conquered dragons, heartbreak, and mysterious killers. Usually the endings were dramatic and suspense filled, leaving me wide awake when he turned of the lights and promised to read even more the next night. But on the night that we finished a series we’d been following for years, I was met only with bitter disappointment. The main character conquered an army of werewolves only to wake up from a dream and realize that her journey to become the Wolf Hunter was nothing but a figment of her imagination. I was horrified, upset, and even offended. I remember sulking bitterly.
“Don’t look so distressed, Zynda,” he scolded lightheartedly.
“That was a terrible ending and you know it. I wish we never read it,” I sighed dramatically, my eight year old mindset too stubborn to compromise.
“There is no such thing as a bad ending. We still had all of those adventures, didn’t we? We fought along Jemma’s side every step of the way -- we helped her find the Dagger of Light! That ending does not take away from the story, and really it wasn’t even an ending,” he said, thoughtfully.
“You’re right, it wasn’t an ending. It was a cheap way out to avoid plot holes. I hate it,” I muttered, crossing my arms and making a show of my pouted lips.
“But it’s not the end, don’t you see little one?” he grew excited as he spoke, the light in his eyes shining through to me. I couldn’t help but smile when he got like this, all full of energy and endlessly amused.
“How come?” I asked, trying to follow his rapidly shifting train of thought.
“This is just where the words stop. The letters on the page must come to an end, but the story is ours forever!” he shouted unreasonably loudly for my small room in the middle of the night.
“You’re saying it’s not the end because we can reread it?” I asked dubiously.
“No, it’s not the end because it lives on within us. What if Jemma wakes up from this dream and takes action -- what if she goes on to do everything in it, now that she knows she’ll be safe?”
I started to protest, but he wasn’t done with his inspirational speech
“And after that? She can do anything she wants! Maybe now that she has the respect of the eldest wolf, she will team up with the werewolves and challenge Melbury’s hypocritical mayor, that horrible Mr. Murphy. Or maybe she’ll journey to S’Worf, like she always said she would,” he debated passionately, leaving me with no choice but to give in.
“Okay, okay. I get it. She’s freed from the page and now she’s ours to live whatever adventures she wants to,” I laughed at the massive grin that spread across his face.
“Exactly. Endings are temporary, there is always more to be done,” knowing he had won he kissed my cheek and tucked me in, leaving me to imagine what Jemma would do next.
Endings sort of became our thing after that. At every ending in my life my father would remind me that it was just a facade-- there was always more to come. That thought never failed to comfort me. When I finished my first softball season and had to say goodbye to all of my teammates I cried profusely, but he promised it wasn’t the end. We would all stay in touch. After my middle school graduation, I sat glumly in the back of his car, driving away and watching my part time home grow smaller and smaller out the back window. Once home, he handed me a book. It was titled “High School Memories,” and the front inscription read, ‘It’s just the beginning…’
But when he announced that he would be heading out for two tours in Iraq, the fear I felt was too real to comprehend.
“Please don’t. We’re happy here. Don’t leave and mess everything up. Don’t say goodbye… please don’t say goodbye,” I begged when he first told my mother and me.
“Zynda, let him go. He is a hero for our country,” my mother said, her proud smile and tear-filled eyes doing nothing to calm my hysteria.
“Dad, you can’t do this. The story never ends well for the hero. And what about us?” I gestured frantically around the living room, hoping he would recognize. “We need you. We need you to defend us and provide for us. You can’t just walk away!” I was crying and shaking, not truly understanding how my father could have an office day job one day and be deployed the next.
“Technically, I’m flying away,” he said with a wry smile and his usual dad-joke charm.
I yelled into the air and retreated to my room, filled with fury and shaking nerves. He followed me moments later.
“You think this is a bad ending, but it’s not. It’s part of the complicated middle. I bet the resolution is going to be great,” he said with heavy sarcasm and just a hint of sincerity.
“Dad, you don’t think bad endings exist. And maybe I don’t either, but if you get shot, I will never read again. There is no choice but happily ever after for you. I don’t know why you wouldn’t choose that...” I whispered, frustrated and upset.
“We will have that, but my heart is in this Zy. I believe in the cause, and I know I can help. I’m choosing happily ever after for America.”
“You sound ridiculous.”
“I know.”
We agreed to disagree, and I spent every moment of the next two months by his side. We talked more than ever, read and discussed the same books, even ran a 5K race just to win a stupid bet he made with a coworker. We’d never been closer which only made it all the more painful when it was time to say goodbye.
It was hard to adjust to him being gone. I always had a story I wanted to tell or something crazy I wanted to do, and writing lengthy letters didn’t satisfy me. I missed all our fast paced, witty banter. I missed his wisdom and terrible humor. I missed him more than ever.
His letters came infrequently and always concluded with ‘The End’ written in quotation marks, to show me he was joking. I failed to see his humor and began all of mine with, ‘The very beginning of the story’ and ended with ‘still just the beginning.’ I wanted him home.
School days seemed dull. I found myself spending more and more time escaping into novels and avoiding my own issues. I let friendships drift away for fear of losing anyone else. I could only control my happiness when I reimagined endings. Actually living them never seemed to end well.
My mother walked in one evening, ranting at me the second she opened the door,“Zynda, you need to start living again. Your father is fighting for our freedom and for the freedom of others, yet you sit in here like some kind of prisoner. What happened to your friendships? Your boyfriend? Your life?”
“Excuse me?”
“Get out! Get out of your room, my house! It’s your senior year; go have fun. You’re making me feel like a bad mother. Every day I have to watch you sulk around this house, waiting for a letter or reading a book. I’m tired of this. It’s depressing.” She pulled up a chair beside the couch where I sat curled up, play in hand.
“It’s my life. I’m happy, and I don’t really see how this is any of your concern,” I retorted, too tired to partake in the conversation fully.
“Can you look at me and put your book down for a second?” she asked, reaching for my copy of Hamlet. “I care about you because you’re my daughter. This isn’t what your father would want. Can’t you see that? This isn’t the story he would write for you.”
“Yeah, I think he gave up his editing rights a while ago.”
“Zynda. Please.”
“Is he even coming home for Christmas? Wasn’t his tour meant to end by now?” I asked, sitting up. I hadn’t spoken to my dad in almost three weeks. He’d been relocated to a more dangerous camp and communication become more challenging. The last time we skyped he seemed exhausted. The bags under his eyes looked engraved, no longer a temporary ailment but a permanent feature. I dreaded to think of what he had seen or done. I didn’t want to see him broken.
“I think he wanted to tell you this himself, Zy. Some other day…” My mother quickly tried to retreat from the conversation.
“Mom, what? Tell me what? What’s happening -- is he okay?” Concern flooded through me. Every second of the day, I lived in fear. Would he come home? Would he make it? My dreams had been infiltrated by the sounds of gun shots. I watched the news obsessively for any word of the war. Panic was always resting in my shaky hands, waiting to emerge and consume me. I could feel the hysteria building every time I closed my eyes.
“Yes! Of course, he is okay. He just... well, he extended his tour again. He said he should still be home for Christmas, but he’s not staying.”
I had no words for my mother. It was like she felt none of my fear. Her deluded sense of honor for our country seemed to mean more than his life. She could tell her friends that he was a hero, but how did that make up for not being able to tell him about her day? Her priorities were twisted beyond repair. I felt nothing but disgust towards her.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Confusion swept over her.
“There’s nothing I can do. Everyone has chosen something over me,” I said, feeling tears building.
“Oh, honey,” she started to reach for me.
“Don’t.”
The next few weeks felt more lonely than ever. Nobody cared. I knew that, maybe I always had. Maybe my father didn’t care either. Maybe all those years it was a game, play pretend. I was tired of pretending to play the happy kid, though. That just wasn’t my role anymore.
I finally received his letter and all it did was confuse me further. It made me feel guilty, which was the last thing I wanted. This wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t being selfish, was I? I just wanted my dad by my side. Why was that such an outrageous request? Why did it make me some unpatriotic monster?

To my Princess,

I heard that your mother broke the news. She never was good at secrets, was she? I guess that’s how you and I got so good at keeping them. I know you don’t understand my decision, but know it’s for the best. You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen. You can’t imagine this world. It is so far from what we know, so far from normal.
That’s what makes it heartbreaking, though. For these people, this is normal. They want us gone. I see it in their eyes as I pass through their villages. I wish I could tell them that we never wanted this war, but that we’re trying to help. I don’t think they’ll ever trust us, and it’s so hard knowing that they see us as their enemies. I feel like I’m walking through a danger zone all the time, and there’s no good reason! I want to explain to them, but I am voiceless here.
I tried to give a little girl candy the other day. She was standing on the side of a small street near a local bazaar wearing every color under the sun. It reminded me of you as a little girl. You remember that week, after reading The Rainbow Fish I think, you wouldn’t leave the house until you had every single color incorporated into your outfit. I can still hear you chanting ‘Roy G Biv! Roy G Biv!’ and scrunching up your face as you tried to figure out what colors you were missing.
Anyway, this little girl was absolutely surrounded in color, and she had your eyes, so big and full of wonder. So I walked up to her with this piece of hard candy, thinking that I would make her day. But the second she saw me this horrible scowl crawled across her face. She took the candy and threw it to the ground. I’ve never felt this helpless before. It’s hard to live in a land where everyone hates you, and you have no chance to defend yourself. But I’m on their side. I hope they know that one day.
I hope you know I’m on your side, too. I know you feel betrayed. I know that. I just don’t think I’ll be able to convince you with a combination of twenty-six letters on a page. Your mother wrote to me about you and I’m worried. I am not sabotaging your story, and you must know that you control your own fate. This isn’t the end, my little girl. I wish you could understand my world.
As a young boy, I read books about men who went and served their country. Those were my heroes. I want to fight. I want this. I want to help people, and this is the only way I know how. I wish I had your support. This is hard enough as it is. I do love you, Zynda. I really, really do.
But I feel like I’m breaking a little more each day. I was never a religious man, but I find myself praying every morning. I need to be strong and I will be, but sometimes it feels like nobody's listening. I feel so alone. I feel like maybe you’ve abandoned me, but maybe you’ve abandoned yourself, too. Don’t do that. I will see you soon, and I expect to find my little girl as whole and heroic as ever.
I miss your stubbornness. People take orders easily here. You would hate it. It’s also way too hot. I feel like I’m melting. The desert swallows up all your emotions and sweats away your grief. I can’t decide if it’s making me feel nothing at all or absolutely everything. I can’t decide much these days. It’s hard to think straight sometimes.
I am looking forward to seeing you again. I hope you will forgive me for the sins you think I’ve committed. It was never my intention to let you down. Please live for yourself though. There is so much to be happy about, and I don’t want you giving anything up.
I know it’s hard. Trust me. I understand. “The End.”
With all the love in the desert, sincerely, your Prince Charming, your Darth Vader,
and your Superdad.

I felt worse than ever before. Obviously what he was going through was a million times worse than anything I faced on a day to day basis. But he chose it. I was never given a choice.
I almost didn’t celebrate Christmas. My mother turned the whole day into a publicity stunt. She invited the whole neighborhood to come over, where we looked at a picture of my father hung above the fireplace. Wreaths stretched below him and a pine tree enveloped in gold and silver ribbons stood by the window.
“It looks like he died,” I said to my mother, who stood by the front door with a plastered on smile and red lipstick smeared on her front tooth. I didn’t mention it.
“We are celebrating on his behalf. Please be nice tonight. Everybody will be here.” She nodded at a couple I barely knew as they walked in, and I took their home baked casserole to the kitchen. This was just so wrong.
As a young girl, I sat on my father’s lap every Christmas Eve as he read me The Night Before Christmas and A Christmas Carol. My mother baked and laughed at all her favorite parts, bringing us samples of absolutely everything. I would write my list to Santa and leave it beside the cookies, each year filling it with more and more books. In the morning, I would race into their bedroom, carrying a stocking almost as tall as me and pulling out reading light bookmarks and assorted pens. It was magical.
This year it felt more insincere than ever. It was like realizing Santa wasn’t real or that you didn’t get everything you wanted. It was like waking up on the twenty-sixth and realizing that it’s all over. It was the worst kind of disappointment.
We had a massive dinner party that felt stiff and uncomfortable. The worst part was the questions from nosey and halfway sympathetic neighbors who pretended they knew me.
“It must be so hard, but your father is a hero.”
“To grow up without a dad, wow, you are so brave.”
“You must miss him terribly.”
It made me want to scream. I picked at my candy cane striped nails and tugged uncomfortably at my plaid skirt, a gift and requirement from my mother.
Before we began eating, she stood up to deliver a speech, and it was unsurprisingly beyond piteous. I didn’t know my mother any more. Sometimes I thought it was a coping mechanism. Maybe she sought approval and attention because somewhere deep down she missed him more than anything. But I hated the woman who stood up and gave that speech. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that she was my mother.
“Thank you all for celebrating with us tonight. I know that you each have a family, and I appreciate your sacrifices. I just couldn’t bear the thought of celebrating alone. It would have been too much. Now, Dave, is a good man. He is working to defend and protect our country. He is working to create a better world, and I love him for that. I really do. I just hope that he would be proud of all that I’m doing here. It’s just so hard,” her voice became shaky and she dramatically wiped beneath her eyes. “Trying to raise a teenager by myself... well, it’s just a lot. I wish my husband was home today. He always knew how to celebrate. Let us raise our glasses to Dave!” She lifted her champagne glass to the ceiling, and twenty other hands followed suit.
I disappeared after dinner, taking my gift from beneath the tree and retreating to my room. I’d strung up fairy lights across my ceiling, and I curled up on my bed and watching the window. I think I had been hoping he’d come home. Somehow I had deluded myself into thinking he would race through the doors and make a guest appearance. I was hoping for a Christmas miracle, but my life was not a novel. I was just an ordinary girl, and my father was no hero.
The present was from him. My mother told me she spent ages trying to find what he asked her to get. I smiled politely as she told me, but the curiosity had pulled at my mind ever since.
I tugged at the blue ribbon holding the parchment paper in place. The wrapping fell away and revealed a first edition copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe from 1950. He read it to me as a little girl, and I always told him I was the ice queen. He promised me I was far more like Aslan, and told me that I was his hero. The card, a screenshotted note from a skype call, read: “To the beginning of my hero’s story, you brave little beast. It’s hard being an ice queen out in the desert, especially without you by my side. Merry Christmas…” I couldn’t keep myself from crying. It hurt so much. Time stood still and the beauty of the book in my hands was too much for me to bear.
“I will be brave, Daddy. Every hour apart hurts, but I will be brave. I need you home. Please come home. We’re waiting, Daddy; we’re waiting,” I cried at the stars outside my window, wishing that one of them would deliver my message.
The knock came one week later. Every night since I have dreamed of knuckles crashing against our wooden door. I hear them pounding at it, breaking it down. The men stand, in pristine uniforms, screaming at me until I shatter.
In reality the knock was barely audible. The men spoke with confidence, poise, and a solemn tone. They told me that my father was dead.
“We’re so very sorry, and we offer your family our deepest sympathies,” a pristine officer said quietly.
My mother let out a high pitched squeal, her knuckles turning white as she gripped at the table. She turned to face me, but I couldn't look at her. I couldn’t face her, or the world, or anything at all.
“No. This isn’t true. He is a hero. He is my hero!” I shouted. “This isn’t the right ending; you’ve got it all wrong! Mom, tell them they’ve made a mistake!” I screamed at her as she curled further in on herself. The men shifted uncomfortably as I fell to the ground.
“This isn’t right! He was meant to come home, don’t you get it? He was going to show up at my high school graduation, out of the blue! He was going to come to my eighteenth birthday party, still in his uniform and carrying some wrapped book. He was going to emerge from the airport gates, and I was going to run into his arms. I was going to grow up with him. This is all part of the middle! It’s not over…  it’s not over… it’s not over,” I murmured. I felt waves of grief consume me. I wanted darkness. I wanted nothingness. I wanted to escape this pain.
The taller man, who spent the majority of his time in my house looking down, finally met my eyes. “He left a letter, in case this,” he coughed uncomfortably, “err -- situation arrived.”
I took the letter and opened it, hoping for answers. I wanted it to all be a joke. I wanted the letter to tell me this was some elaborate ruse. I wanted it to lead me on a treasure hunt across the globe to find him. I wanted it to reveal that he had to fake his own death or that he was hiding out in Jordan. I wanted it to make everything okay. Instead, just two sentences stared back at me as I opened it.
Zynda,
This is not the end. Our story is to be continued…
With love from your hero

I crumpled up the paper and threw it into the fire. Maybe some endings were bad after all.