I had been counting down the days. Just one more month, and Ethan would be home. After all the sleepless nights and anxious calls, he’d finally be back in my arms.
But that night at the hospital, everything changed.
A patient was brought in with severe burns, no ID, and no memory. His emergency contact was listed as “J. Peterson.” My heart dropped.
It was Ethan. But it couldn’t be. He was supposed to come home in a month, not like this.
Days passed, and I stayed by his side, trying to help him remember. But something felt off. He didn’t remember the dog’s name, something Ethan would never forget.
Then, a military officer arrived with devastating news: the man I thought was Ethan wasn’t. The real Ethan was alive, but severely injured at another hospital.
Relief flooded me. But the officer explained that due to a mix-up, the wrong man had been sent to me.
I rushed to Ethan, my heart pounding. When I found him, weak but alive, he whispered my name.
“I was so scared,” he said.
“I’m here now,” I whispered, holding him tight. He looked at me with a quiet resolve.
“I can’t do this anymore, Jenny,” he said. “I can’t keep risking my life. I want to be home, with you, with our family.”
I cried, but I smiled. “I’m with you, Ethan. Always.”
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