Chapter One: The Homecoming I Had Imagined a Thousand Times
For six months, I had imagined the moment I would see my husband again.
Sometimes, I pictured him walking through our front door, dropping his suitcase beside the hallway table, and pulling me into his arms before he even took off his shoes. Other times, I imagined meeting him at the airport, running toward him as soon as I recognized his face in the crowd.
In nearly every version of the reunion, Jeremy Collins laughed at my excitement and told me I was being ridiculous.
Then he kissed me.
And I forgave him for every lonely evening, every missed birthday, every night when I had fallen asleep with my phone beside me, waiting for a message that said he had finally finished work.
That was how I had imagined it.
I had never imagined another woman standing at the airport with a sign bearing his name.
My husband had spent the previous six months overseas, helping his company establish a new branch. Before he accepted the assignment, we had discussed it for weeks. We looked at the numbers, considered the opportunities, talked about the children, and tried to determine whether we could manage the separation.
Jeremy told me it would be difficult.
He promised it would be temporary.
Six months, he said. Half a year of hard work that could put him in a stronger position when he returned.
I wanted to support him. I wanted to believe that the sacrifice would be worth it.
So I told him to go.
I smiled when we discussed the arrangements, even though I cried after he fell asleep that night. I helped him organize his documents, checked his travel insurance, and reminded him to pack the medication he sometimes forgot to take.
On the morning he left, our daughter, Lily, held tightly to his waist.
Our son, Noah, who was still young enough to believe that every separation could be fixed by asking the right question, stood beside the front door with his favorite toy car.
"When are you coming back?" Lily asked.
"Before you know it," Jeremy replied.
"That's not a date," she protested.
He laughed and promised that he would be home in six months.
Noah lifted his toy car.
"Can you bring me a car from another country?"
Jeremy crouched in front of him.
"I'll see what I can find."
Then he stood, kissed Lily's forehead, hugged Noah, and turned to me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I had prepared myself to be strong. I had told myself that grown adults could manage a temporary separation without turning it into a tragedy.
But when Jeremy wrapped his arms around me, I held him tighter than I intended.
"Take care of yourself," I whispered.
"You too."
"And call me when you land."
"I will."
He kissed me once more before picking up his suitcase.
I watched him walk toward the car that would take him to the airport.
He turned around once and waved.
I waved back.
Then the car disappeared around the corner, and I stood in the doorway of our home with two children beside me and six months stretching ahead.
I had no idea that, by the time those six months were over, I would begin to question nearly everything I thought I knew about my marriage.
Chapter Two: Six Months of Small Absences
The first few weeks were easier than I expected.
Jeremy called when he landed, sent photographs of his temporary apartment, and showed me the office where he would be working. He complained about the food, laughed about the differences in time zones, and promised that he would take us to his favorite restaurant when he returned.
I kept a calendar on the refrigerator.
Every morning, I crossed off another day.
At first, the number seemed reassuring. Each crossed-out square brought his return a little closer.
The children adapted in their own ways.
Lily wanted to video-call him every evening. She showed him her schoolwork, told him about her friends, and asked whether he would be home for the school concert.
Noah preferred short conversations. He would appear in front of the camera, announce something urgent about a toy or a cartoon, and disappear before Jeremy had time to ask a second question.
Sometimes, I held the phone while the children spoke.
Sometimes, I sat nearby, waiting for them to finish so I could have a few minutes alone with my husband.
Those conversations became the center of my day.
I learned the time difference by heart. I knew which evenings Jeremy would be too busy to call and which mornings he would probably be available for a quick message.
When his meetings ran late, I told myself not to take it personally.
When he sounded tired, I encouraged him to sleep.
When he said he was overwhelmed, I reminded him why he had accepted the assignment in the first place.
We were building something together, I thought.
His career would benefit.
Our family would benefit.
And when he returned, we would appreciate ordinary life more than we ever had before.
But as the weeks became months, the distance started to feel different.
Jeremy's calls grew shorter.
He was often distracted, glancing away from the screen while I spoke. Sometimes, I heard the faint sound of other people talking in the background.
"Are you still at the office?" I asked one evening.
"Yeah. It's been a long day."
"You should go home."
"I will. Soon."
I wanted to ask more questions, but I stopped myself.
He was working overseas. He was responsible for helping establish an entire branch. He had colleagues depending on him and deadlines that probably meant little to me.
I didn't want to become the wife who demanded attention every time her husband had a difficult day.
So I learned to swallow the questions.
When Lily had her birthday, Jeremy appeared on the screen just before we cut the cake.
He sang along while the children laughed, and Lily held her new bracelet up to the camera.
"I wish you were here," she told him.
His smile faltered for a moment.
"I wish I were there too, sweetheart."
After the call ended, Lily went upstairs.
I found her sitting on her bed, turning the bracelet around her wrist.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Do you think Dad will be here for my next birthday?"
"Of course," I said.
I said it with such certainty that I almost believed it.
A few weeks later, Noah lost his first baby tooth.
He ran into the kitchen, holding the tiny tooth between his fingers as if he had discovered a diamond.
"Dad said I should save it!"
He was right. Jeremy had asked me to keep it safe so he could see it when he returned.
I placed it in a small envelope and wrote Noah's name on the front.
I began keeping a notebook, too.
It contained little things I wanted to tell Jeremy.
Lily had learned a new song.
Noah had started asking complicated questions about space.
The washing machine had broken.
Our neighbor's dog had escaped and ended up sitting on our porch.
I wrote down anything that might make him laugh or help him feel connected to the life he had left behind.
But sometimes, when Jeremy finally called, I was so tired that I could barely remember what I had written.
He would ask how we were doing, and I would say we were fine.
He would tell me about work, and I would listen.
We would exchange a few affectionate words before saying goodnight.
Then I would put the phone down and look at the notebook.
The pages were full.
Our conversations were not.
Chapter Three: The Promise of Tuesday
By the fifth month, the return date had become a subject we discussed almost every day.
Jeremy sent me his flight details.
Tuesday afternoon.
I copied the information into my calendar and checked it more times than necessary.
The date seemed almost unreal.
I had spent so long adjusting to his absence that I had started to organize my life around it. I knew how to get through the evenings alone. I knew how to answer the children's questions. I knew how to manage the house, work, school activities, and the thousand small responsibilities that appeared without warning.
I had become good at being the person who handled everything.
But I didn't want to keep doing it alone.
I wanted my husband home.
I wanted him to see the children without a screen between them.
I wanted to talk to him while making dinner, argue about what to watch on television, and complain about the ridiculous things that happened during my day.
I wanted to stop measuring affection in minutes before a video call ended.
So I decided to surprise him.
The idea came from an ordinary conversation with a colleague.
I had mentioned Jeremy's flight while discussing our work schedules. I explained that I would be working on Tuesday and probably wouldn't make it home until after he arrived.
My colleague, Emma, looked at me.
"Why don't you take the afternoon off?"
"I can't. We're short-staffed."
"Let me cover your shift."
I laughed.
"You can't keep rescuing me every time I want to do something."
"I'm not rescuing you. I'm volunteering."
She offered again, and this time I accepted.
The arrangement was simple. I would leave early, drive to the airport, and wait near the arrivals barrier.
Jeremy believed I would be at work.
He would expect to collect his suitcase, call a cab, and return home to an ordinary Tuesday.
Instead, I would be there.
I imagined the look on his face when he spotted me.
Perhaps he would laugh.
Perhaps he would pretend to be annoyed because I had gone to so much trouble.
Perhaps he would put his suitcase down and hug me in the middle of the airport.
I imagined the warmth of his arms, the familiar smell of his jacket, and the sound of his voice without the slight electronic distortion of a video call.
For the first time in months, I felt excited rather than exhausted.
I began preparing for his return.
My sister, Rachel, agreed to collect the children from school and help them decorate the living room with a banner they had made.