I step back outside and check the house number.
My house number stares back.
I go back in. “I’m home,” I call.
Nothing.
I move through the house, half-expecting a prank camera crew or a note demanding ransom. I carry Pix’s suitcase down the hall and set it in Connor’s room.
Immaculate.
I check the other two bedrooms.
Also clean.
At this point, I’m fairly certain my children have been abducted by aliens. And if this is who the aliens replaced them with, I’m open to negotiations.
I head to my room.
It’s been cleaned, too.
The clutter is gone. The bed is made. And my gold wedding band, the one that’s usually half-buried under mail and whatever else I stack there to avoid looking at it, is visible again.
I stop and swallow hard as my thumb brushes the worn edge.
It’s been years.
Long enough that the ache no longer knocks the air from my lungs. Almost long enough that the empty space learned how to breathe again.
I feel it filling now.
With my kids.
With laughter.
With a life that kept going even when I wasn’t sure I could.
And lately, with the unsettling sense that there might still be room for something more.
Movement outside the window pulls my attention. I cross the room and look out.
They’re all in the yard.
Connor.
Oliver.
Snook.
And Pix.
She’s in a fresh SEAL training T-shirt with one of my flannels layered over it. The sweatpants are rolled at least three times at the waist, unless they’re actually duct-taped there, because nothing I own was ever meant for someone her size.
She’s still in the ballet slippers, ridiculously impractical for winter. Thank God most of the snow has melted.
A soccer ball flies between them, laughter drifting through the glass. Joy in motion. Loud. Uncontained.
Part of me itches to race down and join them.
