Diane smiled through tears.
And just like that, the room took its first breath.
But the story was not finished.
That afternoon, we returned to my parents’ house with copies of the clipping, Noah’s letter, and more questions than answers. My mother sat at the kitchen table with a notepad in front of her, trying to write to Daniel.
She wrote Dear Daniel three times.
Crossed it out twice.
Then sat staring at the page.
Leo was outside with my father, examining a pile of old lumber beside the garage as if it were treasure. Through the window, I watched my father hand him a pencil and show him how to mark measurements. Leo leaned close, listening with full concentration.
My mother followed my gaze.
“He’s wonderful,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I missed everything.”
I did not answer.
She deserved the truth, and the truth was not soft.
“You
