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Part 1
The first words my wife spoke when I returned from war were not “Welcome home.”
She looked directly at me and whispered, “You were supposed to be dead.”
Claire did not cry, scream, or rush into my arms. Instead, she stared at the Easter basket in my hand as though I had brought an explosive device onto the porch.
For eleven months, my life had consisted of dust, gunfire, blood, and nights without sleep.
Three weeks before my unit was scheduled to return home, our convoy was struck. Two soldiers died beside me. I survived with a fractured shoulder and pieces of shrapnel lodged near my ribs, then spent twelve days recovering in a field hospital.
During those endless nights, I thought only about Claire.
I remembered her laughter, the scent of her perfume, and the small yellow house we had purchased shortly before my deployment.
Those memories gave me something to return to.
Because my recovery delayed my arrival, I decided not to tell Claire the exact date I was coming home. I wanted to surprise her on Easter morning.
The basket contained chocolate eggs, a stuffed rabbit for our niece, and a silver bracelet hidden beneath green paper grass.
But instead of welcoming me inside, Claire stepped onto the porch and pulled the front door nearly closed behind her.
Her behavior immediately felt wrong.
“Who’s in the house?” I asked.
The color drained from her face.
Before she could answer, a man appeared behind her.
He was wearing my blue bathrobe.
I recognized him instantly.