I freeze.
Stare at it.
It buzzes again.
Unknown number.
My heart stops.
I grab it. Hands shaking so hard that I almost drop it.
Open the message.
Unknown: Almost home, my love. Wait for me.
I stop breathing.
Read it again.
Again.
Almost home, my love. Wait for me.
It’s him.
It has to be him.
No one else calls me “my love.” No one else would say it like that.
He’s alive.
He’s coming home.
I clutch the phone to my chest. Sob into the pillow.
Relief. Pure, overwhelming, devastating relief.
He’s alive.
And he’s coming home.
49
Mary
Grandma’s kitchen smells like butter and onions and every good memory I’ve ever had.
“More garlic,” she says, leaning over my shoulder to inspect the pot. “Always more garlic.”
“I put in four cloves.”
“So put in six.” She hands me two more. “Garlic is good for the baby.”
I don’t argue. Just peel and mince. Add them to the pot.
She says it so casually.Good for the baby.Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s been saying it forever.
Yesterday was different.
