His first.
He stored it in three places.
Then another shock came.
A letter arrived from the fertility clinic.
Annual storage renewal.
Two embryos remained.
Aaron stared at the envelope.
Hannah saw it.
Neither spoke.
Finally Aaron asked, "What were you going to do?"
"Before you came back?"
"Yes."
Hannah sat.
"I didn't know."
"Another baby?"
"I considered it."
His expression changed.
She immediately said, "Not soon."
"But you considered it."
"Yes."
Aaron sat opposite her.
"Without me."
"You were dead to me, Aaron."
The words were honest.
Still brutal.
He flinched.
Hannah closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"No."
He shook his head.
"That's the truth."
They looked at the letter.
Aaron asked, "What do you want now?"
Hannah laughed sadly.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"I want my husband back."
Aaron looked up.
She continued.
"But I know that's not a fertility answer."
"No."
She folded her hands.
"I don't know what I want with the embryos."
Aaron looked toward Noah.
Their son sat nearby banging two blocks together.
He thought about potential lives.
Not children yet.
Possibility.
"What if we never use them?"
"Then we decide together."
The word mattered.
Together.
Aaron nodded.
"Good."
It was the beginning of rebuilding trust.
Not because Hannah had betrayed him.
But because the marriage had lived through his death.
Legally, there were complications too.
Aaron had been declared presumed dead for certain military administrative purposes.
Hannah had received survivor benefits.
Insurance.
His pay status changed.
Death certificates were provisional in some systems, final in others.
Undoing death became a bureaucratic nightmare.
At one office, a clerk stared at Aaron and said, "According to our system, you're deceased."
Aaron replied, "I've had suspicions."
Hannah laughed so hard she had to step outside.
It was the first time they laughed together like before.
Later in the parking lot, their eyes met.
The laughter faded.
But not awkwardly.
Hannah reached for his hand.
Then stopped.
Aaron noticed.
He closed the distance.
Their fingers touched.
He did not pull away.
That night they sat on the porch.
Noah asleep.
Hannah asked, "Do you hate me for having him?"
Aaron looked toward the street.
"No."
"Did you?"
"I don't think so."
"What did you hate?"
He thought.
"That you had a life I wasn't in."
Hannah's eyes filled.
"I hated it too."
Aaron looked at her.
She continued.
"Everyone told me to move forward."
"Did you?"
"I tried."