The house appears around the last stand of trees, smoke curling from the chimney, Christmas lights already strung across the railing in somewhat uneven lines. A big wreath that my mom made in one of her art classes she teaches at the old folks home once a month.
And then—before I’ve fully stopped the truck—the front door bursts open.
Mom barrels out first, wearing a thick sweater with a reindeer that lights up and twinkles and an apron dusted in flour, yelling something about pie and “my baby” and “give him to me right now, Scottie, so help me.”
Right behind her, holding onto the porch railing with one hand and a cane in the other, is my dad.
For a second I can’t move.
He’s been out of the trial for just over a year. I’ve seen the videos. I’ve been home twice, and they were just in Seattle visiting, but each time I see it, it takes me a minute to believe that it all happened. He may never progress past the cane, and he uses a walker if we have to go somewhere where we walk long distances or for large amounts of time, like the local high school football games or the county fairs.
But seeing him there on the porch, standing up straight in the December cold, waiting to walk down the steps to meet me?
It knocks the wind out of me.
“Scottie,” Katerina says softly, touching my arm.
“Yeah.” I blink hard and force myself to move. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Because how could I not be? My father is walking and has gained back so much of his independence, and I owe it all to Katerina and her grandmother.
I swing out of the truck and come around to unbuckle Roman just in time for my mom to reach us.
“Oh my God, give me that baby,” she orders, which is how I lose custody in under three seconds.
Roman goes to her without a fuss, because he knows my mother as well as anyone else sides up. She came and stayed with us for two months when Katerina gave birth. She took care of all the cleaning, cooking, nighttime feedings with a bottle… anything Kat needed after her cesarean, which put her in bed for longer than we expected. But just like my Russian mafia princess, she’s tough as nails.
My mother snuggles him up, kissing his cheeks noisily while he pats her face. “There he is. There’s my little Rocket. Look at you. Look at your cheeks. Oh my gosh, Scottie, you were never this cute.”
“Wow, thanks, Ma,” I say faintly.
Katerina laughs beside me, and I swear I could live in this moment forever.
Then I look up at the porch.
My dad takes a careful step down, then another. His cane taps on each stair. His left leg is a little slower, a little stiffer. But it moves. It holds.
“Don’t you dare rush him,” Mom hisses at me over her shoulder like she can read my mind.
I don’t move. I couldn’t if I tried.
Dad reaches the bottom step and stands there, breathing a bit heavier but smiling. That same smile he had when he watched me skate for the first time as a kid, or when I got drafted… though there were tears in his eyes that time.
“Hey, Pops,” I say, voice rough. “You broke your parole or something? Thought you were housebound.”
He snorts. “You’re not the only one in the family who can pull off a comeback, kid.”
I walk forward and hug him, careful but firm. He hugs me back just as hard.
He smells of coffee and wood smoke and the same aftershave he’s used since before I was born.
When I pull back, Katerina is standing a few feet away, trying not to cry. Her gaze flicks from my dad’s cane to his face to mine.
Dad spots her, and his expression softens.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter-in-law,” he says. “You bring my grandson all the way out here, and you don’t even get a hug first? Rude, Scottie.”
Katerina laughs, stepping forward into the hug he opens for her. He wraps one arm around her shoulders, the other still braced on the cane.
