[ WP ] They 're walking up the stairs , he can sense them . Lucky for him , he 's been training his entire life for this moment .

I heard the car door slam while sitting in my living room. I was reading the newspaper, or a book, or listening to the radio - I do n't really remember much of that day. 
 
 I did n't need to turn around to know what they were doing here. Something about the way the door closed; something about the way the air smelled; something about the way their stiff rubber shoes stomped up my gravel driveway that my husband and I had always intended to pave over. I wanted to run away from them and towards them at the same time; on the one hand to avoid what I already knew, and on the other to finally let go of the guilt and worry I'd been carrying for almost three years. Instead I froze, like an idiot, and felt a coldness creep from my fingers to my chest. My heart slowed down but became a million times louder, painfully pushing against my ribs. 
 
 They arrived at the first step simultaneously. They had practised their walking. They've done this exact thing before and they'll do it again and it'll never get any easier and they will always stop at the first step, just like anyone would. The entire house seemed to inhale as a breeze rolled through the window and just held it. I found I was holding my breath too, hoping for nothing to change, but betrayed by my visibly pulsating stomach and clenched fists digging into my thighs. 
 
 Finally, as they ascended the first step, the moment was lost. The house exhaled and I rocked myself out of the chair to an unsteady standing position. I knew they would come eventually. Every morning I was reminded by a Ford pickup in the driveway and every night by the pills that helped me - not sleep exactly, but stop thinking for a few hours. 
 
 Third step. I had to prepare myself. The one thing they hated most of all was when you cried. I was n't going to do that. I would be strong and look them in the eyes as I died. As my heart stopped I would stare at them and tell them I do n't blame them. I'd forgive them as they walked away and left me alone. 
 
 Fourth step. I finally recognized I was terrified. I knew what I was getting into when it began but somehow believed I could beat the odds. But a man always dies eventually. To some it just came sooner. The thought was logical, but logic is not comforting. Logic is cold, like the corpse of a lover or the metal of a bullet or the dirt of the grave. 
 
 Fifth step. I finally breathed in again. A sharp, quick, sorrowful gasp. I was on the verge of sobbing but I could n't disgrace myself like that. I quickly reached for the nearest cloth and blew my nose and wiped my eyes. The hand-knitted throw pillow cover would have to dry cleaned but $ 4 does n't matter, has n't ever mattered. No one ever cried over $ 4, and I was n't going to start. 
 
 Final step. They were at the door. A hand raised and paused again in a fist. They were professional. They did not catch you by surprise. It would be quick; it would be painful; but it would be over. 
 
 I walked slowly to the door and pulled it open. 
 
 `` Trevor?'' an unknown, unfathomable voice asked. 
 
 I simply nodded. 
 
 As he handed me the folded flag, I remembered what I had been training myself for every since I married Steven. He would die and leave me alone and that was the price for loving him. He would die and leave me standing in the doorframe holding a flag instead of a body. 
 
 He died because his training failed him. I died because mine took over. 
 
 I did not cry in front of his fellow soldiers, because dead men do not cry.
