I had been counting down the days until my husband, Ethan, would return home. After months of worrying and sleepless nights, I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just one more month, and he’d be back in my arms. But life had other plans.
One night, while working at the hospital, a severely burned patient was brought in on a stretcher. His face was wrapped in bandages, leaving only his eyes visible. He had no ID and no memory of who he was. As a doctor, my first instinct was to stabilize him, but something felt off.
“Check his emergency contact,” I instructed the nurse, my focus still on his vitals. Moments later, my phone rang. It was late, and late-night calls were never good news. Before I could answer, 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.
“Who is it?” I asked, my heart pounding.
She barely managed to say, “J. Peterson.”
My world stopped.
The phone slipped from my hands, clattering to the floor. I turned and looked at the man in the bed. Those eyes—I knew those eyes. It was Ethan. My Ethan. But he wasn’t supposed to be here, not like this.
For days, I stayed by his bedside, telling him stories of our life together—how we met, how he’d slipped a note under my coffee cup, how we danced in the kitchen before his first deployment. He listened intently, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to piece together the fragments of a life he couldn’t remember.
But something felt wrong. He hesitated when I mentioned Maverick, our dog, and seemed distant when I talked about our favorite song. My heart told me this was my husband, but my gut screamed otherwise.
Then, the truth came crashing down.
A military officer arrived one morning, his expression grim. “Dr. Peterson,” he said, “there’s been a mistake. The man you’ve been caring for… he’s not your husband.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. His tags—”
“There was a fire,” the officer explained. “Two soldiers were injured, and their belongings were mixed up. Your husband, Ethan, is alive. But he’s in a different hospital.”
Relief and guilt washed over me. Ethan was alive, but he’d been alone, thinking I had abandoned him. Meanwhile, I had been pouring my heart out to a stranger, trying to help him remember a life that wasn’t his.
The officer offered to take me to Ethan. As we drove, my mind raced. When we arrived, I ran to his room, my heart pounding.
There he was—my Ethan. Bandaged and bruised, but alive.
“Jenny?” he whispered, his voice rough.
I rushed to his side, tears streaming down my face. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
He squeezed my hand weakly. “I thought you’d left me.”
“Never,” I said, my voice breaking. “They sent you to the wrong hospital. I was with someone else. I would never leave you.”
For a long time, we just held each other, grateful to be reunited. Then, with a quiet resolve, Ethan made a decision.
“I’m done, Jenny,” he said. “I can’t keep putting you through this. I want to be home. With you. With our family.”
Tears filled my eyes as I smiled. “Ethan, are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’ve given everything to my country. Now, I want to fight for us.”
