Michael laughed through his tears.
Even Susan smiled.
“Take me home,” she whispered.
That evening, all five of Thomas’s children walked through the same front gate for the first time in two years.
Susan stopped at the porch.
The light was still on.
Thomas had left it burning every night since she disappeared.
Even during his final week, he reminded me.
“Porch light, Pumpkin.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
“Just in case.”
Now Susan stared at that little yellow bulb.
Her face crumpled.
Inside, the house still smelled like Thomas—coffee, cedar, laundry soap, and cinnamon mints.
We gathered around old photo albums.
There we were in matching Christmas pajamas, laughing at a photograph Thomas had insisted was “exclusive European sleepwear.”
For hours, we remembered him.
The man who burned pancakes.
The man who fell asleep during movies and denied snoring.
The man who attended every school performance.
