The surging crowd was alive with a life of its own, a sea of faces mingling in a dazzling scene. My hand rested on my swollen belly, the promise of five months blossoming inside me. The war was over, they said. The soldiers were coming home. My heart, a feverish bird trapped in my chest, beat with a rhythm of hope and terror. He was supposed to be here, on this very sidewalk, in the midst of this happy and regretful chaos.

My gaze swept the crowd, searching, desperate. Doubt, cold and sly, began to creep into the warmth of my hope. He would come back, right? He promised. The thought was a physical blow. Then I saw him, walking slowly, with the aid of a crutch tucked under his left armpit, his right arm supported by a companion. The sight took my breath away.

His left leg... was gone. The war had taken it.

Tears blurred my vision, hot and unstoppable, as fast as my run toward him. He saw me. His face, scarred by the hardships of war, lit up with an almost unbearable joy. In that moment, the crutch, the pain, the missing limb—everything—disappeared. He forgot his disability, and his body rushed forward in an overwhelming rush of emotion. He tried to run, to reach me, to close the distance between us. The crutch slipped from his grip, and fell to the ground unnoticed as he stumbled forward, and his companion instinctively reached out to him to stop him from falling.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him with a frightening weakness, as if I were holding on to the last spark of hope. It was not just an embrace, but a surrender to weakness after a long struggle with strength. His embrace was a refuge from the storm that swept over me, melting the ice of fear that had frozen in my veins. He whispered the words, “I’m home… as I promised,” like a prayer chanted from the depths of the soul. His words were a breath of fresh air to my broken heart, my tears welling up in a mixture of relief, sadness, and joy that astounded me. He was back. He was home. That was all I need.