Chapter 10 - The Orders
I stared at General Hale across his desk.
The deployment orders lay between us.
Six months.
Possibly eight.
Overseas.
High-level advisory assignment.
The kind of position officers spent entire careers hoping to receive.
Two years earlier, I would have accepted without hesitation.
A year earlier, I would have felt relief.
Now all I could see was Sophie sitting in an oncology hallway.
“I can request reassignment.”
Hale said.
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I know what you’ve been dealing with.”
“She’s in remission.”
“Recently.”
I looked down at the paperwork.
“This assignment matters.”
“Yes.”
“So does she.”
“Yes.”
Hale leaned back.
“You need to decide which sentence you can live with.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“If you go, don’t pretend the Army forced you.”
His voice was direct.
“If you stay, don’t spend ten years blaming her for the career path you gave up.”
I stared at him.
That was the exact trap.
Sacrifice easily becomes resentment when people refuse to admit it was a choice.
“I have forty-eight hours.”
Hale said.
I drove to the house.
Sophie was there.
Painting window trim.
She looked at my face.
“What happened?”
I handed her the orders.
She read them.
Her expression did not change.
“When?”
“Six weeks.”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“Maybe eight.”
Silence.
Then she handed the paper back.
“You should go.”
I stared.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“I am.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You’re saying what you think protects me.”
She crossed her arms.
“Maybe I think you should go.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s your career.”
“You hated when I left before.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“We were married.”
The word hurt.
“You’re right.”
I looked down.
“We aren’t.”
Her face softened.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It’s true.”
She leaned against the wall.
“Ethan, if you stay because of me, what happens the first time you regret it?”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right.”
She blinked.
“You’re doing the annoying agreement thing again.”
“I’m trying to stop making promises about emotions I haven’t had yet.”
“That’s very mature.”
“I hate it.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“You should take the assignment.”
I sat on the floor.
“Do you want me to?”
She hesitated.
There it was.
The hesitation.
The same tiny pause that had once broken her heart.
“Sophie.”
She looked away.
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then why tell me to go?”
“Because wanting you here doesn’t give me the right to ask you to stay.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“If we’re trying again, you’re allowed to want things from me.”
She stared.
“You said this isn’t a marriage.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then what is it?”
I had no answer.
That was the problem.
We had kissed.
We were spending every day together.
I loved her.
She loved me.
But neither of us knew what to call the fragile thing we were rebuilding.
Sophie looked toward the nursery.
“I don’t want to be the reason you stop being who you are.”
I stepped closer.
“You think the Army is who I am?”
“It’s part of you.”
“So are you.”
Her eyes filled.
“That scares me.”
“Why?”
“Because last time I was part of you, losing our babies made you cut that part off.”
The sentence hurt.
But I understood.
“I did.”
I nodded.
“And I can’t promise I’ll never run again.”
She looked surprised.
“But I can promise that if I feel myself running, I’ll tell you.”
She wiped a tear.
“That’s not very romantic.”
“Neither is therapy.”
She stared.
“What?”
“I made an appointment.”
“With who?”
“A therapist.”
Sophie’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Colonel Ethan Parker?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You hate therapy.”
“I’ve never tried it.”
“You hate feelings.”
“Exactly.”
For the first time that day, she laughed.
I started therapy the next week.
Dr. Samuel Ortiz was a retired Army psychologist.
He annoyed me immediately.
Which apparently meant he was excellent at his job.
He asked why I wanted to stay from deployment.
“Sophie.”
“That’s a person.”
“Yes.”
“I asked why.”
“Because I love her.”
“Better.”
He wrote something down.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I hate when people do that.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You’ve told me three times.”
Therapy was terrible.
I kept going.
Sophie noticed.
So did I.
I began understanding that grief had not made me weak.
Avoiding it had made me absent.
That distinction changed everything.
Two days before the deployment decision deadline, I returned to headquarters.
“I’m requesting reassignment.”
I told Hale.
He studied me.
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
“Certainty is usually where officers start lying to themselves.”
I signed the request.
It cost me the assignment.
Possibly promotion opportunities.
I knew that.
I signed anyway.
Then I went to Sophie’s apartment.
“I’m not going.”
She stared at me.
“You declined?”
“I requested reassignment.”
“Why?”
“Because I chose to.”
Her eyes filled.
“Not because I asked?”
“You didn’t.”
“Not because I’m sick?”
“You’re in remission.”
“Not because you feel guilty?”
“I feel guilty every day.”
I stepped closer.
“But guilt wasn’t allowed in the room when I decided.”
She studied me.
“What was?”
“You.”
Her face broke.
She kissed me.
This time, the kiss was not a question.
It was still careful.
Still afraid.
But it was real.
Two months passed.
Sophie returned to part-time work as a graphic designer.
Her hair began growing back.
Soft.
Dark.
She complained it looked like a teenage boy’s haircut.
I told her she looked beautiful.
She accused me of having bad taste.
We began couples therapy.
That was even worse than individual therapy.
Dr. Ortiz referred us to Dr. Rebecca Miles.
She made us say things out loud that both of us preferred to leave buried.
“I was angry when you chose deployment.”
Sophie admitted.
“I was relieved to leave.”
I admitted.
She cried.
I did too.
Then we talked about it.
No doors slammed.
No one disappeared.
It felt revolutionary.
At the three-month remission scan, everything remained clear.
At six months, clear again.
Life expanded.
Cancer became less present.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But quieter.
One Saturday morning, Sophie made pancakes.
I walked into the kitchen.
She pointed at the coffee.
“No coffee for me.”
I froze.
She stared.
Then burst out laughing.
“Relax.”
“You cannot say that casually.”
“I’m trying to reduce caffeine.”
“You’re evil.”
“I know.”
She kissed my cheek.
Later that day, we went hiking.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No emergency.
No diagnosis.
No secret.
Luke had been right.
Boring days mattered.
That evening, we sat on the porch of the old house.
We had decided not to sell it.
Not yet.
Sophie rested her head on my shoulder.
“Do you want to move back?”
She asked.
My heart skipped.
“Do you?”
“I asked first.”
“I asked second.”
She nudged me.
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
She looked through the window.
“I think I do.”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
I smiled.
“I’ve learned not to scare you with enthusiasm.”
She laughed.
Then became serious.
“One condition.”
“What?”
“The nursery stays empty.”
I looked at her.
“For now?”
“No.”
Her voice was steady.
“I don’t want our whole life to become waiting for a child again.”
I nodded slowly.
“What do you want it to be?”
She looked at me.
“Ours.”
I took her hand.
“Then ours.”
We moved back the following month.
The first night felt strange.
Familiar rooms.
Different people.
We slept in the same bedroom.
Same bed.
This time, there was no invisible wall between us.
At two in the morning, I woke.
Sophie was sitting beside the window.
Old fear returned.
“What’s wrong?”
She turned.
“Nothing.”
I sat up.
“Actual nothing?”
She smiled.
“Actual nothing.”
“Then why are you awake?”
She held up something.
The wooden box.
I got out of bed.
Inside were Benjamin, Caleb, and Jamie’s names.
Sophie touched the papers.
“I think I’m ready.”
“For what?”
“To stop treating this like a grave.”
I sat beside her.
“What do you want to do?”
“Plant something.”
The next morning, we planted three trees in the backyard.
Small aspens.
One for each child.
No ceremony.
No speeches.
Just Sophie and me.
When we finished, she squeezed my hand.
“They’re remembered.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re still here.”
“Yes.”
She leaned into me.
Then the phone in my pocket rang.
St. Vincent.
My body reacted before my mind did.
Sophie saw my face.
“Answer.”
I did.
Dr. Chen’s voice.
“Ethan, is Sophie with you?”
My blood turned cold.
“Yes.”
“Put me on speaker.”
I did.
Dr. Chen took a breath.
“Sophie, we received your latest bloodwork.”
Sophie gripped my hand.
“What?”
“There’s something we need to repeat.”
The world narrowed.
Sophie whispered,
“Is the cancer back?”
Dr. Chen paused.
May you like
And in that pause, every peaceful boring day disappeared.
“I don’t know yet.”
