“Always.”
He poured two cups and sat across from me.
For a while, we watched the last light fade from the windows.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Dad hid the memory card because he knew Sandra would do this?”
“I think he hid it because he knew we might need the truth.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Knowing someone might hurt you is fear. Preparing to survive it is love.”
Tommy looked at the photograph on the shelf.
“I wish I had understood that sooner.”
“So do I.”
He reached across the table.
This time, I took his hand before he could pull it away.
His fingers were warm.
Outside, the birdhouse moved gently in the evening breeze. A small bird landed on its roof, tilted its head, and disappeared through the round opening.
Tommy smiled.
“Did Dad put that there?”
“No.”
“Then maybe the house is doing something on its own.”
I looked toward the open windows.
The curtains lifted, carrying the scent of grass and rain into the room. Somewhere in the kitchen, the clock began to strike six.
For one brief moment, I heard the familiar scrape of James’s chair across the floor.
I did not turn around.
I only held Tommy’s hand and watched the windows fill with gold, while the house breathed around us, whole and quiet and finally home.
