I was counting down the days—just one more month, and Ethan would be home. But that night at the hospital, everything changed.

A burn victim arrived with no ID, his face covered except for his eyes. When the nurse checked his emergency contact, my phone rang. Then her voice broke through the noise: “Dr. Peterson… the emergency contact is J. Peterson.”

The phone slipped from my hands. I looked at the patient—those eyes. No. No, no, no. It was Ethan.

For days, I stayed by his bedside, reminding him of our life together. But something felt off. He hesitated at memories he shouldn’t. Then one morning, a military officer arrived.

“There’s been a mistake,” he said. “The man you’ve been caring for… isn’t your husband.”

My heart stopped. A fire had mixed up two soldiers’ belongings. My real Ethan—alive but in another hospital—had been alone, thinking I abandoned him.

The officer offered to take me to him. I glanced back at the stranger I had poured my heart into. He had clung to memories that weren’t his. But now, his real family would find him.

I rushed to Ethan’s hospital, my heart pounding. When I finally saw him—bandaged but alive—he whispered, “Jenny?”

Tears streamed down my face as I grabbed his hand. “I’m here.”

He swallowed hard. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep leaving, risking never coming back.”

Tears welled again, but this time, for a different reason.

“I’ve given everything to my country,” he said. “Now, I want to fight for us.”

I nodded, holding him close. We had been through hell, but we were finally home. Together.