"Thanks, Mom."
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that only comes from years of shared meals at this same table.
"This is really good," she said after a few minutes, looking down at her plate.
"Thanks, Mom."
She frowned slightly. "Did I already say that? I feel like I just said that."
"You did," I said easily. "But I don't mind hearing it twice."
Dad's hand tightened around his fork, but he didn't say anything.
We finished dinner, and Mom excused herself to go upstairs. "I'm tired," she said, standing slowly. "I think I'll read for a bit and then go to bed."
"I'll be up in a few minutes," Dad said.
She smiled at both of us and left the kitchen. We listened to her footsteps on the stairs, steady and even.
Dad and I cleared the table in silence. I started loading the dishwasher while he dried the pans I'd left in the rack. The rhythm was familiar, easy.
"Thank you," he said finally. "For being here and… and doing this. I know you gave up a lot to come back."
I felt it immediately, that familiar pull. The warmth of being needed, being seen as the good guy who drops everything and shows up.
"You don't have to thank me, Dad."
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
"I just mean…" I set down the plate I was holding. "I'm not doing you a favor. I wanted to come back. I needed to."
He was quiet for a moment, studying me. "Okay."
"I'm not trying to be difficult. I just don't want you thinking I'm some kind of—" I didn't know how to finish that.
"Some kind of what?"
"I don't know. Hero. Martyr. Whatever." I picked the plate back up. "I'm just here. That's all."
Dad nodded slowly. "All right, son." His voice was rough. "But it still helps. You being here. It does."
We finished the dishes without talking. When the last pan was dried and put away, Dad hung up the towel and headed for the stairs.
"Goodnight, Matthew."
"Night, Dad."
I stood at the sink for a while after he went upstairs, looking out the window at the dark yard. It looked the same as it always had, the same tree I used to climb, the same porch where I'd spent summer nights with Elena back when we were teenagers and everything still felt possible.
The house was quiet. Mom was probably asleep by now, and Dad would be reading in bed the way he always did. And I was in the kitchen, drying my hands.
Trying to remember how to be part of this.
CHAPTER 21: ELENA
Isaw Caleb's truck pull into the parking lot through the window of my office. Tuesday afternoon, no appointment scheduled. That made it three times in two weeks.
He was already at the desk when I came through, Scout sitting calmly at his feet. The puppy had grown, still the quiet one, still watchful, but solid now. All the gangly awkwardness settling into something steady. Like his owner.
