Seven months ago, the morning he left, Laura had stood in the driveway in her robe, refusing to cry in front of him because she said it would jinx the homecoming. He’d held onto that image through every long shift, every sandstorm, every night he couldn’t sleep in the heat. She’d promised to wait, and he’d never once doubted her.
Out there, he’d built an entire version of this day in his head. He’d walk in, she’d scream his name, and the last seven months would collapse into nothing the second she was back in his arms. He’d thought about her laugh more than he’d thought about home itself, because to him, she was his home.
Other guys in his unit had gotten letters that ended things, phone calls that went quiet for weeks, photos online that didn’t match the stories they’d been told. He’’d never had to worry about any of that. Laura wrote him every week without fail, right up until two weeks ago, when her letters had simply stopped. He’d told himself it was nothing — bad mail routes, a busy week, anything but the alternative. Now, standing in his own kitchen surrounded by things he didn’t recognize, he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore.