counted the days for four months.

Every morning, I woke up with one thought keeping me moving: I was going home. I was going to walk through my front door, kiss my wife, and hold my newborn daughters for the first time.

My mother had sent me their photo the week before. Two tiny girls wrapped in yellow blankets, side by side, their faces soft and serious like they were already judging the world.

I kept that picture folded in the breast pocket of my uniform for the entire flight home.

What I had not told anyone—except my best friend Mark—was that I was coming back with a prosthetic leg.

Mara didn’t know.

My mother didn’t know.

I had made that choice after the injury because Mara was pregnant, and after two losses, this pregnancy felt like a miracle we were both too afraid to touch. I couldn’t bring myself to send her fear while she was carrying our daughters.

So I carried it alone.

At a small market near the airport, I bought two hand-knitted yellow sweaters, because Mom had written that the nursery was yellow. Then I bought white flowers from a roadside stall because white had always been Mara’s favorite.

I didn’t call ahead.

I wanted to surprise her.

The drive home felt endless, and I spent most of it smiling like a fool. I imagined Mara opening the door. I imagined the babies. I imagined finally being whole again, even if my body wasn’t. Then I pulled into the driveway.

Something felt wrong before I touched the door.

No lights. No noise. No sign of a home with newborn twins inside.