My husband, Staff Sergeant Ethan Cole, had been deployed overseas. Seven months ago, his unit was ambushed in a remote desert valley. They called for backup, but signal interference scrambled their communications. The rescue team couldn’t locate them.
Ethan died out there, bleeding in the sand, because no one could hear him.
He never knew I was pregnant.
Right then, the front door opened, bringing in a wave of expensive perfume. My older sister Ashley walked in, wrapped in a luxury coat. Behind her came Ryan, her husband of three months, carrying himself with easy arrogance.
“Please don’t make this dramatic, Emily,” Ashley sighed sweetly. “It’s temporary. Ryan needs a proper workspace, and honestly… your constant sadness is ruining the atmosphere in the house. It’s depressing.”
Ruining the atmosphere.
I looked at her, searching for anger, for the urge to argue—but it was gone. That version of me had already burned out.
“Of course,” I said quietly.
My mother crossed her arms, satisfied. “There’s a camping cot in the closet. Keep your things out of the way. Ryan parks in the center.”
Ryan chuckled under his breath.