My own daughter told me, “Mom, don’t come to the l…

Kevin grilled ribs and acted, back then, like he was grateful to be included. David played guitar by the fire pit after dark and let the older kids try to learn chords they were too young to appreciate. Pauline and I sat in Adirondack chairs in the evenings and talked about things we had not said aloud in years.

Mama’s sweet potato pie recipe. Daddy’s laugh. The time we all got lice at Bible camp and Mother shaved our heads and said at least the Lord had given us symmetrical skulls.

No one touched Samuel’s photograph. No one rolled their eyes when I ran my hand along the mantel before bed. No one made me feel like I had to explain why that house mattered more than square footage, lake access, and resale value.

That is the thing about love that is real. It does not ask to be justified. It just sits there, steady as stone.

The second summer, things shifted. Not dramatically. Not in any way that would have made a good story if I had told it then.