There is no parenting book that explains how to walk your daughter through the standard operating procedures for sniper fire. Should Alyssa wait to see what the men do by turning to page 86, or should she fire on them by turning to page 92? Spoiler alert: If you turn to Page 92, you end up killing two unarmed civilians, which is a war crime. The book says your mission is over, and you will most likely be punished when you get back to base. Alyssa didn’t take that path. “They don’t have any guns, Daddy, so I’m not going to shoot them, because they don’t look like bad guys.” she said. Watching my daughter navigate escalation of force and rules of engagement made me sick. Seeing combat reduced to a common-core multiplication math problem detached from the harsh realities of war left me in a state of shock.

As our adventure came to a close, Audrey asked me for personal context: “Did you do that?” My reply was more an effort to change the subject than to answer. “No,” I said. “Let’s see what this other book says about Afghanistan.” I reached for another book about Afghan culture. We would read that instead. I was disgusted by our minutes reliving part of my past. The choose-your-adventure format felt breezy and cavalier, recklessly presenting a bloody contest between the Taliban and the Marines in a manner largely devoid of consequences. I know what the book did not say. My friends and I killed in Marjah, and Marines in my rifle company lost limbs and lives. No notional exercise in choice will erase the fact that both my battalion and the battalion to our north killed many civilians in the opening days of Operation Moshtarak, when American high-explosive rockets struck occupied Afghan homes. Then, in the end, American plans for the area failed. Today Marjah is again under of the control of the Taliban and warlords.

Maybe this moment of discomfort in my home was inevitable. My daughters were, quite naturally, trying to figure out a piece of their lives that everyone seemed to know more about than they did. Eventually I will honestly discuss my time in Marjah with them. I will tell them about the time one of their uncles and I commandeered an Afghan National Army truck for a joy ride. I will tell them about the Marines who died, and how much I miss them every day. Finally, I will tell them about the family I escorted to a graveyard. Their baby had died because, fearing the Taliban, they couldn’t get to a hospital. I will tell them about the white blanket that enveloped their child held tightly in the father’s arms as we led them to the burial grounds.

I will tell them that I took lives in combat, because they deserve to hear it. I will tell them the truth. I pray that by then the truth won’t tarnish their idea of who I was in the Marine Corps. Until then, I won’t participate in the presentation of the Afghan war as an adventure. Some who were among us never came home. Those who did can’t turn to page 103 and see the conclusion or turn to page 11 and start a new adventure. There are no do-overs in war.