I had been counting down the days until my husband came home.
I thought I knew exactly what to expect, exactly how our reunion would go.
But then, a wounded soldier arrived at the hospital—when we checked his emergency contact, my blood ran cold.
I was counting down the days. Just one more month, and Ethan would be home. After endless nights of worrying, after holding my breath through every phone call, I’d finally get to hold my husband again.
But that night at the hospital, everything changed.
A burned victim came in on a stretcher—with severe injuries, and bandages covering everything except his eyes.
He had no ID and no memory of who he was.
“Check his emergency contact,” I told the nurse, my focus still on his vitals.
A few minutes later, as I stood by the nurse’s station, my phone rang. I frowned. Late-night calls were never good news.
Then the nurse’s voice cut through the noise.
“Dr. Peterson… the emergency contact for the patient—” She hesitated, her face pale as she looked between me and the chart.
My phone kept ringing. I swallowed hard.
“Who is it?”
She barely got the words out. “J. Peterson.”
My world tilted.
The phone slipped from my hands, clattering against the floor.
The nurses were saying something, but I couldn’t hear them. I turned, my breath shallow, and looked back at the man in the bed.
The eyes. I knew those eyes.
No.
No, no, no.
It was Ethan. My Ethan. He was supposed to be coming home in a month, not now, not like this.
For the next few days, I stayed by his bedside, barely sleeping, barely eating.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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