Then he had turned away.
At twelve, I thought he was embarrassed because he couldn’t afford to keep our home.
As an adult, I understood that he had been saying goodbye to a place where he had watched his daughter grow up.
And now, thanks to Ethan, I was standing there again.
I turned and fell into my husband’s arms.
He caught me immediately.
I cried against his chest, gripping his shirt as if the floor might disappear beneath me.
He rubbed my back.
“I hope I got it right,” he whispered.
I pulled away just enough to look at him.
“You got it right.”
My voice broke.
“You got all of it right.”
We spent the next hour walking through the house.
My old bedroom had pale yellow walls, just as it had before. The window seat where I used to read books had been repaired, and the small shelf Dad had built for my stuffed animals stood beside the closet.
