But I had rarely seen him cry.
Now he held me as if the future he had quietly hoped for had finally become real.
We stood beneath the oak tree for a long time, surrounded by the ordinary sounds of the neighborhood.
A car passed on the street.
Someone called to a child from a nearby yard.
Leaves rustled overhead.
Nothing extraordinary happened.
And somehow, that made the moment even more precious.
The following weeks were full of decisions.
We discussed the repairs that remained, the cost of moving, and whether our current house would be easier to sell or rent.
Ethan insisted that we take our time.
“I don’t want this place to become a burden,” he told me. “I want us to enjoy it.”
We agreed to move gradually, finishing the remaining work before bringing our furniture over.
Every visit revealed another detail.
A shelf I remembered from the hallway.
