He left it burning.
Night after night.
Year after year.
Just in case she came home.
Susan reached for my hand.
Noah took hers.
Michael put his hand on Mara’s shoulder.
For the first time in two years, we walked toward the car together.
Nobody walked ahead.
Nobody stayed behind.
We were five siblings again.
Exactly as Thomas had raised us to be.
Before getting into the car, Susan looked back at the little lantern beside his grave.
And I imagined Thomas saying what that light had said every night since she left:
You may be angry.
You may be lost.
You may stay away longer than you intended.
But you still know the way home.
Because love isn’t determined by blood.
Sometimes love is simply the person who chooses you.
The person who stays.
And the person who keeps the light on until you find your way back.
