I carried her out of the dark that day, into the sunlight.

And every single day since, in every way I know how, I have kept her there.

That is the whole of what a marriage is, I have come to think — not the wedding, not the vows, not the house, but this: finding the one person you would carry out of any darkness, at any cost, and then spending the rest of your ordinary days making sure she stays in the light.

I failed her once, by being far away and slow to see.

I will not fail her again.

She fought her way out of a hell alone and held on until I could reach her, and the least I can do, the most I can do, the thing I intend to do for whatever years we are given, is to make certain she never has to fight anything alone again.

She waited four years for me to come home.

She has the rest of my life to show for it.

And every morning, when I wake and hear her laughing somewhere in our small clean house, I remember the storage room, and the mud, and the terror in her eyes when she thought I would be ashamed of her — and I thank God, quietly, that I walked around the back of that house before it was too late, and found the bravest person I have ever known, and carried her home at last into the sun.