"And when she laughed? Son, I swear to God the world made sense for a minute."
This time, Mom couldn't suppress a soft chuckle.
"And when she looked at me, I felt like the man I was supposed to be. Not the fool I was at twenty."
Something in my chest twisted.
"So that's how I knew," Dad finished. "When life felt… easier with her. Brighter. Like she was somethin' I didn't know I'd been missin' until she walked right into me one lucky day."
Mom whispered, "He still looks at me that way, you know."
Dad coughed loudly. "Woman, you're gonna embarrass the boy."
But I wasn't embarrassed. I was struck still. Because every word he said?—
each damn one, hit me like a truth I'd been circling without admitting.
I swallowed hard. "Thanks, Dad."
"You treat that girl right," he said. "If she's anything like your mother, she'll keep you on your toes."
I laughed under my breath. "Oh, she does."
"Then good," he said simply. "She's already done you some good, I can hear it."
He wasn't wrong. "Tell us more about her," my mother demanded.
I told them a little, not about the rubble, or the hunger, or the danger, just enough for them to picture her. Enough to let me say her name out loud, like it meant something. "Inga."
It felt like a promise when I said it.
Dad sighed. "Well, son… sounds like you're a goner."
Maybe I was. We talked a little longer, about Montana, about my sister, about the stubborn mare that still hated everyone except Mom.
Then Dad checked the time and said he had to feed the cattle before the sun went up.
"We love you," my mother said fiercely.
"Get some rest," Dad added.
"Write more," Mom insisted.
"Don't get shot down," Dad grumbled.
"I won't," I promised, even though in Berlin no promise like that meant anything.
We hung up.
I walked back to my room with a feeling I hadn't had in years.
Warm.
Content.
Alive.
I stretched out on my cot, listening to the echo of their voices, the memory of Inga's laughter, and the steady, impossible beat of something new unfurling inside me.
