When Jessica Serrato’s partner rang a few hours into her morning routine, she finally felt a measure of relief. The call meant the internet at his base was working, his unit hadn’t been moved for safety, and most urgently: he was still alive.
Cradling her phone between shoulder and ear as she mixed pancake batter, Serrato ran through the same small questions she always asks: How was guard duty? Have you had dinner? Even in the busiest moments with two children to get ready for school, she answered because she missed him — and because the war with Iran has turned every conversation into both connection and check for safety.
About 50,000 American troops were sent across the Middle East after the recent escalation between the U.S. and Iran. For many families, including Serrato’s, this is the first time they are living through an active, uncertain conflict with a loved one deployed. Serrato’s partner is an Army reservist; the family asked that he not be named for safety concerns.
On the phone that morning he sounded low on energy. She hesitated to press; she doesn’t like to talk about the war where her two children can hear. Her 11-year-old daughter, Laylah, who is from a previous marriage, had already been struggling to concentrate at school since the conflict began, her imagination filled with worst-case scenarios.
For a moment, the everyday broke through: Laylah piped up to tell a joke. Serrato laughed. Later she would tell him that Laylah had a dance performance that afternoon and offer to record it — his current return date to Los Angeles has already slipped once, and with more delays he’ll miss her birthday. They hope to be reunited by August, the start of sixth grade, but Serrato is skeptical; their plans have been rewritten before.
Her partner had volunteered for a nine-month deployment partly for the extra pay and to help them buy a first home. He left in October. The larger regional fighting flared later: strikes, counterstrikes, shaky ceasefires, and slow-moving talks. Serrato remembers waking to a middle-of-the-night call when she could hear sirens on his end of the line. She told him to watch out for himself and tried to sound calm; after the call she broke down.
As the weeks passed, Serrato and her partner’s parents stayed glued to the news, scanning for signs the war might ease. The headlines offered brief hope and rapid disappointment. “How many times have they said there’s a deadline? How many times have they said, ‘OK, there’s a ceasefire right now’?” she said, describing a sinking distrust of official pronouncements.
The disruption reaches beyond worry. Deployment logistics in this conflict have been different from past wars. Many service members have been mobilized on short notice under Operation Epic Fury, according to Shannon Razsadin, CEO of the Military Family Advisory Network. Months of preparation — arranging childcare, managing household finances, and leaning on command support — were often absent this time. For National Guard members and reservists, who typically live off-base, the suddenness can be especially destabilizing because families are farther from military support networks.
Kathy Roth-Douquet, CEO of Blue Star Families, noted that some spouses have had to reduce work hours or quit jobs to manage the home front during abrupt deployments. “This is an extra burden of military service, of the sacrifice that the whole family makes,” she said, urging broader community support for affected households.
At times the fear is visceral. On March 1, when the Pentagon announced the first U.S. service members killed in the fighting, the family felt the danger land in a new, terrible way; the U.S. military death toll has since risen. That same day, Serrato’s partner told her their base was under attack. She and his mother, Yadira Dessaint, called one another and cried.
Dessaint and Serrato have since become a source of strength for each other. Serrato and her children moved in with Dessaint for mutual support. The two women developed an unspoken understanding of when the other needs a hug or a quiet check-in. They even introduced a nightly ritual: lighting a candle for St. Michael the Archangel and praying together for protection, not only physical safety but mental well-being.
Serrato keeps her phone within reach at all times. She listens for tone and cadence, trying to tell if he’s struggling emotionally — something he may not admit aloud. “I can hear it in his voice,” she said. “I just miss him feeling OK.” Often when she doesn’t know what else to say, she repeats the same steady message he asks for: “I love you. Everything’s going to be OK.” It’s what she can offer from thousands of miles away.
Small objects have taken on larger meaning. Serrato holds the dog tags he left behind and pulls a sweatshirt from his closet to sleep in some nights. Photographs of him hang at his parents’ home; a candle and a small shrine mark the household’s waiting. These rituals and tokens are attempts to make the long pause feel less raw.
The family’s story points to wider questions about how sudden, protracted conflicts affect those at home. When deployments come without the months of preparation many military families once had, the emotional and practical costs ripple outward: children distracted by worry, missed milestones, disrupted work and housing plans, and a constant scan for news that could change everything. Support organizations emphasize that society owes extra help to families bearing these burdens.
Through it all, Serrato tries to keep routine and tenderness alive for her children while offering whatever calm she can to her partner. On a car ride after dropping the kids at school, for a few quiet minutes that morning, he told her simply that he wanted to come home. “I know, mi amor,” she said.
Until that reunion happens, their life remains on pause — measured in short phone calls, delayed dates, prayers by candlelight, and the small steadiness of love repeated again and again.