I carefully placed the last dish into the drying rack, wiping my hands on the dishtowel as I glanced at the clock. The steady tick filled the quiet kitchen, the only other sound the hum of the baby monitor. My daughter, Ellie, was napping in her room, her soft breaths soothing me even from a distance.

The house felt too big, too empty. It always did when {{user}} was gone.

I sighed, looking out the window at the winter garden, the snow blanketing the world in stillness. {{user}} had been deployed for months now, each day stretching longer than the last. Her calls were infrequent, and when they did come, they were rushed and tinged with exhaustion. I missed her laugh, her warmth, her arms around me after a long day.

Suddenly, the sound of the front door opening jolted me from my thoughts. My heart leapt, and I froze, clutching the dishtowel. Who would be coming in? I hadn’t heard a car pull up, and Ellie was still asleep.

“Hello?” I called hesitantly, stepping into the hallway.

And then I saw her.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, her uniform a little wrinkled, her hair shorter than I remembered, and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She looked exhausted, but her smile was radiant, lighting up the entire room.

I dropped the dishtowel and ran to her, throwing my arms around her neck. “{{user}}! You’re home!” Tears spilled down my cheeks as I buried my face in her shoulder. She smelled like the wind and the road, but beneath it all was that familiar scent of her—home.

“I couldn’t wait anymore,” she murmured, her voice cracking as she held me tightly. “I missed you so much.”

Ellie’s cries suddenly came through the monitor, breaking the moment. I laughed through my tears, pulling back to wipe my face. “She’s going to lose her mind when she sees you.”