AS MY 12-YEAR-OLD, Stephen, and I hurried into T.F. Green airport, eager to meet my husband, Paul, after his year in Afghanistan, I considered how different this return was.

We lived in New England, far from Army posts like forts Bragg, Hood, and Campbell and their familiar fanfare. We didn’t tape handmade signs to the gymnasium walls, cheer wildly when the battalions marched on, or share the giddiness with friends and family.

This time, Paul, a 22-year career soldier, was an “individual augmentee,” someone who didn’t deploy with a unit but rather traveled alone to the Mideast to fill an open billet.

His send-off ceremony a year earlier took place on the curb next to the skycap, the minivan idling alongside us. Our two children still slept soundly in their beds at that early-morning hour. Since Paul didn’t even want me to accompany him into the airport, he said goodbye, hoisted the duffle bag onto his sturdy shoulders, and disappeared into the terminal without a backward glance.

Twelve months later, his welcoming committee wasn’t even full strength.

Our 16-year-old daughter was attending her state sports banquet, so only Stephen and I lingered awkwardly by the airline ticket counters, eyeing the cordoned chute where passengers emerged from the secure area.

Though it was nearly 10 p.m., the terminal buzzed with summer traffic.

“There he is!” Stephen shouted, launching himself toward the tall, tanned figure in uniform striding toward us.

He slammed into Paul’s waiting arms at full force and they clung to each other like castaways after a rescue. Then it was my turn for a long, crushing embrace. The three of us hugged and laughed and sobbed, overwhelmed by the emotion of a demanding year and his safe return.

When we finally pulled ourselves apart from our very public display of affection, I noticed a cluster of people staring at us. One woman stepped forward and, pointing at my camera, shyly asked, “May I take a picture for you?” She had tears in her eyes, I noticed, as did the others who by this time had formed a kindly circle around us.

An older gentleman reached out his arm. “Thank you for your service to our country,” he said, vigorously shaking Paul’s hand.

“Let’s get my bag and go home,” Paul said, tired after flying around the world. He steered us to the escalator. “God bless you and your family,” a female voice called out after us. I waved and smiled at her.

As we descended to the baggage claim area, Paul told me that when the flight attendant announced his arrival home, the entire planeload of people applauded and let him disembark first to meet us.

While Stephen searched for the Army duffel bag, Paul enjoyed his rock-star status in the baggage claim area as he continued to be back-slapped and welcomed home by fellow travelers. I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder and looked up to see a vacationer in shorts and T-shirt.

“Good to have him back, I bet,” said the man. “We appreciate what you did too.” Only when he walked away did I notice the USMC tattoo on his ankle.

It was a very different reunion. I feared a letdown because we didn’t have the bands, the pomp, and the crowds of my Army community.

Instead the local citizenry blessed us with their spontaneous and genuine outpouring of patriotism and compassion.

Marna Krajeski writes from Wakefield. This piece first appeared in Military Spouse magazine.