the appearance of our marriage.
Now he was giving me permission to choose.
I touched his hand.
Not held it.
Just touched it.
“I’m still here.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
“That means something.”
His fingers turned beneath mine.
“It means everything.”
We walked the last block holding hands.
Not reconciled.
Not completely healed.
But moving in the same direction.
When we reached home, Dad sat in the living room with Leo asleep against his chest.
The same image that had terrified Rowan weeks earlier.
This time, Rowan smiled.
