My baby died in the war. We met when we were 16, married at 18, and then he was taken. They told me it had been quick, he had fought as hard as he could for himself and for us, but I wasn't interested in their justifications. My baby, the one man I loved more than anything or anyone on Earth, died for his country, for his family, for me. He died for petty reasons made up by human minds. He died because violence is a first resort, and nobody can ever just put aside their differences, forget their problems.
The greatest lesson I have learned yet is that life can be snuffed out like a candle - except unlike a candle, it cannot be re-lit. And you are left behind, alone in the darkness, the warm light stolen away from you.

When my baby died, his war ended, but mine began.