She saw me and smiled. Not the ashamed smile from the traffic island. A real one, tired and whole.
“Dad, you want the first one?” she asked, holding up a slightly lopsided pancake. “It’s ugly but it’s good.”
I walked into that sunlight and took the plate from her hands. Leo reached for me with both arms, and I picked him up, his weight solid and warm against my chest, his little hand patting my cheek.
We ate together at the small table that was hers again, the three of us, with the windows open to the desert air, and for the first time since my wife died, the house didn’t feel empty at all.
