American Wife by Taya Kyle Page A

about being alone with the children in the house. We lived in a relatively quiet suburb, and yet—what would I do if there was an intruder?
    Before we had kids, the answer was simple: I’d hide or run away. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, even a thief. But now that I had children my attitude changed:
    Take one step inside my house and I will put a bullet through your skull.
    One day after he’d returned home from the Ramadi deployment, Chris and I went down to a gun range. As he showed me some of the basics, I started asking questions.
    And more questions.
    And more after that.
    Why this, and why that.
    â€œReally?” he said finally. “Are you challenging what I said?”
    â€œNo, no,” I tried to explain. “I just want to know everything about it.”
    Maybe husbands shouldn’t teach wives about certain things, and vice versa. I did eventually get pretty good with a gun—but that was after enlisting a friend of Chris’s to help teach me. Somehow those sessions were a little easier.
    It was during Chris’s time back home after Ramadi that Mike Monsoor was killed in Iraq after courageously saving the lives of his fellow SEALs and Iraqi soldiers by leaping on a live grenade. Chris and I attended the service in San Diego.
    We stood toward the back of the cemetery as the coffin was prepared for burial. As is customary, the SEALs pounded their Tridents into the top before it was lowered into the ground. I couldn’t help but think of the danger Chris had been in, and how thin the line of fate was that kept him from being the one laid to rest.
    When the services were over, I went off to see some friends while Chris went with a few of the others to a bar in Coronado. That was the night that the infamous incident with Jesse Ventura occurred or didn’t occur, depending on whose account you believe.
    I didn’t think much of the incident when I heard about it the next day, and I doubt Chris did, though gossip about it spread quickly around the SEAL community. There was no knowing then that the details would eventually become the subject of a court case.
    ONE LAST TIME
    Chris’s time home passed quickly, and in the spring of 2008, his unit was ready to deploy again. This tour, he found himself assigned to the area near Baghdad; he was in and near the notoriously dangerous Sadr City and some of the villages outside the capital for a good stretch of time.
    The kids were bigger and more of a handful. I was having trouble keeping up. More and more I felt overwhelmed. I blamed Chris—surely things would have been easier if he had been there.
    I would vent to Chris on the phone when he called, then feel sorry.
    â€œI fall apart and then try to explain it all and tell you I am proud of you even though the whole situation is hard,” I wrote in an email after one of those conversations. “I probably don’t even need to write all that anymore since you’ve heard it before and I guess you understand.”
    This was his response:
    May 2, 2008
    Sorry I haven’t written but the internet was actually down. Just as I told you that it was dependable. About the emails once every deployment, I don’t care if you send them once a week. If you are feeling down and need to talk about it or write about it, then do so. I already told you, I am here for you to cry on, or dump your emotions on. I know these deployments are rough on you, especially now that you need some help with two kids, and all the regular chores of the day. So please feel free to unload your worries and troubles on me. I am glad to hear Bubba is doing so much better. Hopefully he will get over the cold soon. I love to hear that he is saying so much, and climbing in the seat all by himself. Wow. He is shooting up like a weed. Next you’re gonna email me saying he was driving my truck. Hope you are feeling better each day. I can imagine how it would feel to have so much to do, and not be able