Two weeks ago, I went into our closet to pull out my husband’s police uniform. I needed to make sure everything was ready for his paid duty that evening. Paid duties are extra shifts we rely on for Christmas gifts, car repairs, and just making ends meet. With four kids I homeschool, every dollar counts.
That day, he had already finished a full shift as a detective in the fraud unit. He rushed home for a quick dinner, hugs, and kisses with the kids before heading back out for another eight-hour shift on barely any sleep. Police families live this story every day: rushed meals, crying kids, bedtime routines done alone.
I write this from my perspective as his wife, but I see and admire female officers too—mothers who work while pregnant, nurse babies after shifts, and face danger every day. This story is about my husband—the man who comes home from the darkest calls and still gets down on the floor to play with our kids, who holds me close and reminds me of the good in the world.
That day, I picked up his bulletproof vest. Have you ever held your spouse’s vest—the thing that can stand between their heart and a bullet? It’s thin, yet heavy—physically and emotionally. I saw his name stitched over his heart—the name I took on our wedding day, the name our kids carry. I gathered his shirts, socks, and boots, imagining him standing in rain or snow, alert to every threat while strangers assume his shift is easy.
When he got home, the kids leapt at him with joy. Dinner was short but full of laughter and stories. Then he went upstairs and layered into his uniform, transforming into someone the world sees as protector or adversary. I wish everyone could see the man I see—the husband, the father, the one I wait for every night.
The worry never goes away. I’ll never get used to a text: “Gun call, running late.” I’ve paced in icy streets at 3 a.m., worried about him driving home exhausted.
Later, sitting on our bed, I watched him finish getting ready. He looked so handsome in uniform. We had twenty minutes before he left again. He could have checked his phone, but instead, he knelt with us for our nightly rosary. I asked for a quick photo with the kids—just one.
He doesn’t know I call it “the last photo.” I have nearly a decade of them—just in case. Only a few spouses take a picture knowing it might be the last. In this photo, the kids were in messy pajamas. I edited it to black and white. He looked happy. They looked safe. And I prayed, Please, God, don’t let this be the last one.
A friend suggested I share this, to remind people there’s a human behind the badge, a family behind the human. Check on the police spouses in your life. Sometimes they’re quietly shouldering it alone for the seventh night in a row.
I wish I didn’t have to write this. But I’m thankful I did. This isn’t us versus them. It’s just our life. So when you see a picture of my husband and our kids, know that while I was taking it, I was praying it would not become the last photo.
Credits: Lindsay Murray
