It’s normal.Comfortable.
Evan starts off quiet.
Shoulders tight.Eyes watchful.
My brave boy.
But the second J.T.sets a massive bowl of pasta on the table—glossy, fragrant, clearly made with care—Evan’s whole face changes.
“Is that pasta?”he asks.
“Someone told me it was your favorite,” J.T.says simply, like it wasn’t a calculated choice.
And just like that, Evan sits up straighter.
He takes seconds.
Then, thirds.
He starts talking.
About school.
About baseball.
About the goats he wants to see after dessert.
And I sit there, glass of wine in hand, trying not to cry because my son is laughing in a house that might soon be his.
The adults share a bottle of wine.
Evan has two glasses of fruit punch.
Then, we have espresso with the dessert I brought.
Homemade apple crumb pie.
The kind with too much butter in the topping and cinnamon heavy enough to scent the whole room.
I even grabbed vanilla ice cream from Woodhaven Dairy to go with it—the good stuff.
The kind that melts slow and tastes like childhood summers.
Evan declares it’s better than Aunt Willow’s s’mores brownies, which earns him a mock gasp from me.
After dinner, I help J.T.clean up.
Maddox takes Amelia and Evan out back to show him the animals.
Through the sliding glass door, I watch as my son squeals in delight when one of the goats nudges his hand for more feed.
He laughs.
Full-bodied.
Uninhibited.
The kind of laugh I’ve been desperate to hear again.
