down.’
So I did.
He crossed the kitchen carrying two plates under his own power, steady and unafraid.
Morning light was pouring through the window.
No alarms were going off.
No pill organizer waited on the counter.
No one was curating the room but us.
Jordan set my plate down, dropped into the chair across from me, and reached for the syrup.
For a moment I simply watched him.
Six years had been taken from us.
That was true.
But so was this: he was here.
I was clear.
The lie was over.
Outside, the city moved through another ordinary morning.
Inside, my son smiled around a mouthful of bad pancakes and asked if we should drive to the water later.
‘Yes,’ I told him.
And this time, when we left the house, we left because we wanted to.
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