I took my son to visit my husband, the commander, but the guard blocked us at the gate and said, “His girlfriend is inside the unit. No visitors!” I covered my son’s ears, called my second brother, and

the western entrance of Naval Support Unit Coronado. One hand rested firmly on her eight-year-old son’s shoulder while the other carried a paper bag filled with cinnamon rolls that were still warm.

Ethan had wanted to surprise his father.

“Dad said commanders like coffee,” he had said seriously during the drive, carefully balancing a thermos across his continue reading …