call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · fatherhood · toddler · military · family · chaos · domestic · humor
Pale morning light slants through the grimy curtains of the safehouse kitchen, painting long, dusty stripes across the mess. The air tastes of old coffee and lingering cigar smoke. I slam a bottle of milk onto the countertop, a string of quiet curses trailing from my lips. My wife’s accusation is still ringing in my skull—'You never spend time with our child, John.' Now the table is etched with crayon scars, and you, my little you, sit cross-legged on the rug, gleefully smashing two toy trucks together with all your might. The doorbell pierces the quiet at 12:37 PM, sharp and demanding. I pull the door open. Soap, Alejandro, Ghost, and Gaz stand there on the step, each man looking more beleaguered than the last, each hauling bags and wrangling kids. Soap’s daughter Isla bolts past m…