of tears she had always been able to produce when she needed them.
“Fiona,” she said, “we’ve all been doing a lot of thinking. We want to make things right. We’re family. We’re still family.”
My father stared at the porch boards.
Belle arranged her face into something warm.
Mark looked toward the boys in the yard.
His boys.
The children he had barely asked about for more than a year.
I stood in the doorway of the house my own words had helped buy and understood exactly what was
