Just four months earlier, I fought tears as I drove the same route. On that night, at the battalion headquarters, I clung to Blair before he stepped out of the car into the darkness. I wondered if there would even be a war, and when I would see him again. I struggled to push from my mind the possibility that he might not return. The war turned out to be violent but brief, and my husband's battalion saw plenty of combat.

On the night we reunited, I waited for hours with hundreds of other family members. In the wee hours of the morning, Alpha Company marched into sight, and the crowd went nuts. Blair and I spotted each other and he fought the urge to laugh as I jumped around like a wild woman. Blair's company was dismissed and soon I was swept off my feet, wrapped in the embrace of a lifetime. I melted into him, relieved that it was finally over.

My children welcomed their father with gusto. Their behavior spoke volumes about how much he'd been missed. My daughter practically attached herself to his side. The first night, she broke our hearts crying in bed, pleading, "Don't leave, Daddy." She eventually settled down with Blair's dog tags clenched in her fist and the promise that she could put them around his neck in the morning.

Even our 8-month-old son sensed a change, and woke up wailing three times that night.

To celebrate Blair's return, I stocked the kitchen with his favorite foods and beverages, anticipating every possible culinary desire. However, the ice cream, gummy bears and beer remain largely untouched. Accustomed to small, infrequent meals, these pleasures brought only cramping and indigestion. Besides, after witnessing abject poverty, such excesses stirred feelings of guilt.

We talked about several options for getaways, but lounging in style didn't appeal to him. Believe it or not, after months of sleeping on the ground, Blair wants to go camping. The four of us will be pitching our tent and roasting marshmallows in the near future.

Our home is still bursting with joy, but that doesn't mean I haven't noticed some minor changes.

Within twelve hours, Blair used my toothbrush, finished a roll of toilet paper without replacing it, and pointed out that my son's early reveille time was unacceptable.

Within twenty-four hours, pantry items were grossly out of order – chips with the cereal and baby food next to the pasta.

Any remaining rituals of my solo routine are long gone.

I listen gratefully as he narrates his experiences in Kuwait and Iraq. The stories he tells are compelling and dramatic. But Blair doesn't feel obliged to share his feelings with curious but well-meaning friends. I don't blame him, and won't betray his trust here.

He read many of these columns while overseas, and finished the rest this week. He is proud of me, relieved that I didn't reveal too many embarrassing tidbits about our life together, and apologetic for causing me such anxiety.

This column marks the final chapter in our unexpected journey.

By chance, this war became a multimedia event for us.

Just after Blair's departure, I began writing this column.

Then, Register reporter Gordon Dillow and photographer Mark Avery were embedded with Alpha Company, traveling in the back of Blair's vehicle.

I quickly became appreciative of the "embeds" stories, as they provided clues to my husband's whereabouts and well-being.

At the same time, I was telling people how my family and others were handling the challenges of having loved ones in harm's way.

But our parallel lives are now over. We're together again – for real, not only in the pages of the paper.

The day after our reunion, I untied the yellow ribbon from the tree in our yard, and placed it, along with articles and photos, neatly in a scrapbook. The scrapbook, along with Blair's desert camouflage uniform, will soon be tucked away in the back of a closet.

I'm incredibly grateful that Blair returned safely. The politics of the war hold little significance for us now – Blair witnessed firsthand joyous Iraqis celebrating the arrival of U.S. forces. Destitute women and children held out bread and water – the best gifts they had to offer, and hailed them as heroes.

To me, Blair is a hero, and a sheet poster hanging from my neighbor's garage sums it up eloquently: "My hero is home."