Fifteen years ago, my life fell apart. The truly sad part of it was that, before everything fell into disarray, I was happier than I had ever been. I guess you could say I'm sort of happy now too. But the fifteen years between the happiest time of my life and my sort of happy now is a long, painful story. A story that started in love, passed through depression, and ended with heart break.

Nineteen years ago, I married the love of my life. We had been in love for years. We worked together, lived together, and knew we would die together. Zach had been the light of my life, the only person who could keep the nightmares away after a long and painful mission. He was the one I trusted most when we were half way around the world, on some mission for the CIA, or even when we were working with MI6. And nineteen years ago, he became the only person to whom I would belong. I belonged to him, but only because he belonged to me first.

We were happy. We went on missions together. We lived in Washington D.C. He went to the bar with his friends. I went out with mine. Sometimes we traveled back to Roseville, Virginia: to give lectures to the future generations of Gallagher Girls, to see my mom and Joe and Abby, and sometimes because we needed to see the place that first felt like our home.

Fifteen years ago, Zach went on a mission. He told me it wasn't going to be a long one. It was routine, he said. He assured me that there was practically no danger. He wrapped his arms around me and said it was his last major mission, before we lightened our load and started to settle down. He leaned in, pressing his lips against my ear and whispered, "I'll be home by the Fourth of July at the latest." Then he kissed me. The kiss was long and passionate, slowly building with all the love and care he had for me. That kiss had all the unspoken words between us from the previous eleven years, all the fights we had resolved, all the times we had fallen into bed with each other unable to speak, and all the tender moments of time we would miss because he would be gone for a while.

The month he was gone was long and tiring. I felt lonely even though Bex visited regularly, even though Macey promised me a trip to the spa, even though Mom and Joe told me not to worry. But I did worry, and I was right to. When the fourth of July came to pass, I was in Roseville. My mom and Joe had put together a BBQ for the extended family. Abby was there, so was Townsend. As was Bex, Grant, Macey, Preston, Liz, and Jonas. My family was there; everyone I cared about, except for Zach. But they all were optimistic, Bex was even joking that it would be so like Zach to arrive unannounced and make the party complete. But he didn't.

The call came on my cell phone. The director of the CIA told me in solemn words. He was sympathetic, he told me to hold out hope. One minute I was laughing, and the next the sky had fallen on my shoulders. My husband was missing. MIA. Zach was gone.

I could tell you I put on a brave face. That I was sure he was going to come home. But I wasn't. I cried and felt hopeless, and I planned to look for him. I would search every corner of the globe looking for him. Whether the CIA said I could or not, I was going to find Zach. Bex said she was coming with me, Macey said she was too. We were Gallagher Girls, and we weren't going to give up on him.

I never even got to get on the airplane. I was ready the next morning. My bag was packed and my plane ticket was purchased, but I was feeling sick. I thought it was just nerves. I thought it was anxiety. One trip to the doctor's office told me otherwise. Yes, I was nervous and anxious, but that wasn't why I was sick. No. I was pregnant. Zach's baby. I was pregnant with Zach's daughter. And I knew he might never find out.

Six months later, Christina was born. She was tiny and strong and I could already tell she was a fighter. Joe said she was beautiful. Mom said she looked like me when I was an infant. Liz was crying, Macey was speechless, and Bex couldn't believe she was an aunt. Christi was my new happiness. She staved off the depression that had consumed me for the previous six months. She was the last Christmas present from Zach. Christi was that last thing of Zach I had, and she was the most important.

Christi had a relatively normal childhood. She loved going to her Grandma and Grandpa's house when I had an occasional mission. She loved playing with her cousins; Katie, Nick, and Emily. She loved running around Gallagher Academy when I started working there. And when Christi started at Gallagher academy two and a half years ago, she wanted to become someone who made her dad proud. I saw so much of Zach in her. From her amber brown hair to her mannerisms and her smirk, Zach had shone through his daughter. She didn't have to prove anything, I told her. She already would have made her father proud of her.

It's been fifteen years since Zach went missing. Christi is a 9th grader at Gallagher Academy. I'm the Covert Operations teacher. My mom is still the Headmistress. And my sophomores are terrified of me. I've been hard on them this semester, but even the girls who will be on the R&D track need to know how to handle themselves. My juniors are doing well. So are my seniors, and it sort of breaks my heart to know that they only have 7 months until they have to face the real world. But I know they will be ready.

It's November right now. I still frequent the secret passageways around the mansion, and the chill is starting to settle in the empty unheated corridors. But I'm still standing there, starting out the window. I wonder what my life would have been like if Zach had never left. I'm so deep in my thoughts; I almost don't see the shape staggering across the lawn. The figure is limping badly as it makes its way up the steps toward the front door.

I rush out of the passage way, toward the entry way. I'm the only person up at this hour. The only one who could help the man, or kill him if need be.

I open the door and the man straggles in. His head is bleeding, his arm is broken, his foot is dragging against the ground. He was obviously once a very strong man. He is tall, with dark brown hair that has hints of gray in it. His eyes are gaunt and his body is now thin and wasted away. He looks at me with dark, familiar eyes. Recognition flashes across his face and he whispers, "Cammie."

My mouth drops. His name passes my lips as I surge forward and press my hands to a face I haven't seen in fifteen years. "Zach," I mumble as I kiss his chapped lips. Nothing else matters in that moment. Nothing but his lips and mine and the way he pulls away to mouth, "I love you," against my skin. Nothing until I feel the hot, slick feeling of his blood over my hands. Nothing until his eyes roll back in his head and he falls unconscious in my arms.

I scream. I screamed louder than I ever have before. My voice is raising several octaves as I screech for anyone who can hear me. I know who's closest. I also know that they won't be able to hear me. I set Zach down and punch the panic button on the wall. Within a minute, Mom and Joe are running down the stairs. Joe helps me get Zach onto a stretcher while Mom calls the infirmary and the CIA. Less than five minutes later, Zach is wheeled into a room with no windows. One where they can help him, where they can fix his injuries. I try to follow but Joe's hand is on my shoulder. "No," he says in a voice that reminds me of his days as my teacher. All the strength has left my body. All the adrenaline fades away and I am left crying. My tears soak my shirt as my mom holds me, the way she did when I was a kid. I manage to choke out, "At least he's alive."

Mom nods to me and suggests I go take a shower. "Breakfast will be soon and you have to tell Christi," she reminds me. My daughter. I almost forgot. I'm not sure what I'll tell her.

I keep thinking about the conversation I am going to have with Christina. I keep thinking of the right way to tell her that Zach was home. That she had a father again. But I couldn't find the right way to say it. And I was out of time too, as Christi is pounding at the door. I slowly dried off and put on my clothes. I open the door and my fourteen year old bounces in. I know she notices the circles under my eyes. She sees the shaking of my hand. I know she does because she sits down next to me on the couch and takes my hand in her own. "What's wrong Mom?" she asks me. I just look at her. I can feel the tears coming to my eyes when I whisper, "Someone has come to see us." Her questioning look is what propels me continue. "Your dad. He's finally come home."

Christi's blue eyes grow in her head. I could see the questions, the wheels in her head turning. She doesn't know what to say, what to ask first. Finally, she asks the only thing that she could. Almost silently, she murmurs, "What do we do now?"

I wrap my arms around her and answer in return, "I don't know, sweetheart. I just don't know."