I wasn’t supposed to be home for another three weeks, but my unit fast-tracked my leave because of some medical stuff back home. That “medical stuff” turned out to be my wife, Amara. She’d collapsed at work and was rushed to the hospital. Her mom was vague over the phone, just kept saying, “She’s okay, but… you should come.” So I flew home in my dusty uniform, still smelling like sand and engine grease, heart pounding the whole way. I didn’t even go home first—just straight to the hospital with my bag still slung over my shoulder.

Her room was on the third floor, and when I walked in, she was propped up in bed with a blanket over her lap and that familiar scrunch in her brows she gets when she’s trying not to cry. She blinked. Then gasped. Then actually started laughing—like, full-on laughing with tears coming down her face. “I was gonna surprise you,” she said, reaching for something on the tray table. It was a little white box with a ribbon, just sitting there like it wasn’t about to change my entire life.

“Happy early birthday to me, huh?” she added, biting her lip. I opened the box. Inside was a single ultrasound photo and a tiny pair of pastel blue socks. I stared at them, totally frozen. I’d missed the moment she found out. I’d missed everything. But then she winced. Like, really winced.