A mark on the kitchen floor where Dad had once dropped a jar of paint.
The old cupboard where Mom used to keep the good dishes, which she brought out only when guests came.
Some things had been recreated.
Others had survived.
And a few were gone forever.
I learned that restoring the house wasn’t the same as traveling back in time.
We couldn’t bring Dad back.
We couldn’t undo the day we lost our home.
We couldn’t erase the years my mother had spent judging Ethan, or the years he had spent keeping the truth from me.
But we could decide what happened next.
That was what mattered.
My mother called several times during those weeks.
At first, she asked about the house.
Had we really decided to move there? Were we sure it was practical? Had Ethan checked the roof? Did we know how much it would cost to maintain an older property?
