The living room was warm from the afternoon sunlight, comfortably silent except for the shuffling around the room from a young woman. She was wearing baggy sweatpants and a loose, over-sized tank top. Her dirty blonde hair was in a messy bun atop her head and she wore deep bags underneath her eyes. The expression on her face told a different story, though. Her bright blue eyes were twinkling like the ocean water, a tint of green embedded within them. The smile she wore was stretching from ear to ear, beautiful white teeth creating a striking image. A hospital bracelet adorned her wrist, hanging loosely and falling over the top of her hand. On it read “Diana Bernard, Sex: F, Admission Date: 6/15/1982,” along with a few other tokens of biographical information.

Pictures sat atop the fireplace, one of her in a bikini standing with a man in swim trunks. They were on a sandy beach that was filled with people, red solo cup in her hand and a bottle of beer in his. They stood arms wrapped around each other while they enjoyed their final spring break of college. That week after the two of them would have their first date together, paintball with dinner at a casual restaurant to follow. The picture frame next to that was college graduation, a collage of gold and black, caps and gowns, and flowers and diplomas. One picture was of her and her family, smiles wide and tears shiny in her dad’s eyes. One of the pictures had her and the same boyfriend from the beach together, hugging each other and pearly white teeth making the picture one to remember. The final two pictures in that collage were of her boyfriend and his parents. He was shaking his dad’s hand and looked as though he was mid-sentence; the gesture was strong but their faces were soft giving way to their excitement. He hugged his mom in the other picture, her arms wrapped around his crouched body and his head resting on her shoulder. You couldn’t see his face in the picture, but his mother’s was a wobbly smile from all the happy tears she had cried during the ceremony.

One final picture sat above the fireplace, and it was the one placed in the center. It wasn’t the largest frame, but it had the most meaning. She was wearing a long white gown that accentuated every curve of her body, hanging low on the ground and trailing behind. Her hair was wrapped in a twist, countless pins and hairspray holding it in place, the flowers in her hand tinted with gold and black accents. Her makeup was perfect and she looked beautiful. Her new husband was wearing white to match, golden buttons spanning down the front side of his body and black shoulder boards sitting at the top of his arms. He wore medals on his left pectoral muscle and a crisp white hat to finish his outfit, wrapped in black trim above the brim. The photo was taken from the waist up, and the sun created the most natural lighting for the newlyweds, and the moment was now forever frozen in time encased in a glass frame.

She trusted him with her life, he trusted her with his. She knew the time, distance, and struggles a military wife endured, but she was always comforted by the rare sound of his voice and the letters he would send her. He would tell her he loves her; he’d tell her he would be home soon and he always thought about her. She would tell him she loved him, about what has been going on with her and how much she missed him. They had worked hard to get to where they were now, and they had sacrificed so much. She sacrificed a normal life where she could

sleep next to someone every night for a man that was home once a year. He gave up everything he had owned to provide for her. He made sure that she could never doubt his love for her, and he made her feel safe even when he wasn’t there. In the end, all of the pain was worth it because she had married the man she loved, and he loved her unconditionally.