Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights of the Fort Henderson PX hummed over Sarah Miller' s head.

Brenda Hayes' voice cut through the afternoon lull, sharp and accusing.

"Shoplifter! She's trying to steal that lipstick!"

Sarah froze, a cheap tube of "Desert Rose" clutched in her hand.

Her mind, finally clear after years of a fog induced by a traumatic brain injury, struggled to catch up.

A small boy, Timmy from next door, stared with wide eyes, his lollipop halfway to his mouth.

An older woman muttered, "That Captain Turner's wife, always some kind of trouble."

Captain Michael "Mike" Turner, Sarah's husband, materialized beside her.

His face was a mask of cold fury.

He didn't ask questions.

He didn't look at Brenda.

He grabbed Sarah' s arm, his fingers biting into her skin, and dragged her out of the store.

The lipstick clattered to the linoleum floor.

Back in their small base housing unit, the silence was heavy.

Mike threw a sheaf of papers onto the worn kitchen table.

Divorce papers.

"I can't do this anymore, Sarah," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the love she now vividly remembered.

"The constant drama, the embarrassment. It's affecting my career, my sanity."

The words hit her with the force of a physical blow.

Her recovery, the return of her memories, her cognitive functions snapping back into place over the past few weeks – it was all real.

And with that clarity came the horrifying understanding of what her life had become while she was lost in the TBI's haze.

She saw how Brenda, an old acquaintance with a venomous envy, had subtly nudged her into erratic behavior, fed her confusion.

And Mike, her Mike, had reached his breaking point.

Sarah looked at him, the man she loved, the man who had promised her dying parents he would always care for her.

His eyes were hard, his jaw set.

She remembered their wedding day, his warm smile, the future they had planned.

Now, those memories, sharp and clear, contrasted cruelly with the stranger standing before her.

"Mike," she began, her voice trembling, "I... I'm better now. I understand..."

He cut her off with a harsh gesture.

"I've heard it before, Sarah. Every time there's an incident, you're 'better,' you 'understand.' Then it happens again."

He didn't believe her. The divorce papers were proof.

His rejection was a physical ache in her chest.

He turned and walked into the small living room, his back to her.

"I'm going to my office on base. I expect you to have read those by the time I get back."

The door slammed behind him.

Sarah sank into a kitchen chair, the cheap wood digging into her legs.

Her gaze fell upon the divorce papers. His signature was already there on the last page.

She picked them up, her hands shaking.

The legalese swam before her eyes, but the message was clear: "irretrievable breakdown of the marriage."

Desperation clawed at her. She couldn't lose him. Not now, when she was finally herself again.

She looked around the small, neglected house.

Dust coated the surfaces, a testament to the months, years, she'd been adrift.

A wave of shame washed over her. This wasn't her. This wasn't them.

Mike had promised her parents. He had loved her fiercely once.

She remembered that love, the safety of it.

A new resolve hardened within her.

She wouldn't let Brenda win. She wouldn't let the TBI destroy everything.

She had to prove to Mike she was back, the real Sarah.

She stood up, the divorce papers still in her hand.

First, she would fix this house. Then, she would fix her life.

She started with the kitchen, scrubbing away layers of grime.

Hours later, she moved to the bathroom, then the tiny living room.

As she cleaned, memories flooded back – not just of her TBI-induced confusion, but of the accident itself.

A car crash, a sudden impact, then darkness.

She paused, leaning against the wall, her breath catching in her throat.

She was lucky to be alive, lucky to have her mind back.

She looked at her reflection in the newly cleaned bathroom mirror.

Her face was thinner, pale, with dark circles under her eyes, but her inherent beauty, the kindness in her features, was still there.

The "flightiness," the unreliability – that wasn't her. That was the injury.

And now, the injury was healing. She was healing.

She took a long, hot shower, washing away the grime and the lingering scent of despair.

Wrapped in an old, soft towel, she felt a sliver of her old self return.

She needed clothes. Most of hers were in a jumbled, neglected pile.

She tiptoed into the bedroom, to Mike' s side of the closet.

His scent, a faint mix of soap and starch, clung to his shirts.

She pulled out one of his old, comfortable undershirts and a pair of his PT shorts. They were too big, but clean.

As she dressed, a wave of shyness, an almost girlish embarrassment, washed over her.

It felt strangely intimate, wearing his clothes after so long.

The front door opened. Mike was back.

Her heart leaped into her throat. He wasn't supposed to be back so soon.

She stood frozen in the middle of their bedroom.