Colin walked up the porch steps carrying a small wooden crate. He looked thinner, but the heavy, distracted tension that used to permanently rest on his shoulders had softened.
“These are for your garden,” Colin said, setting the crate down. Inside were fresh tomato plants and lavender—Arthur’s favorites.
“Thank you, son,” I said, giving him a warm, firm hug.
We spent the afternoon planting the garden together. The kids ran through the yard with Helen’s dog, their laughter filling the clear spring air. Jessica hadn’t come—she and I had reached an unspoken, polite distance—and honestly, it was better that way. Respect didn’t mean pretending the past hadn’t happened; it meant establishing boundaries where everyone could breathe.
Later that evening, after the kids had settled down in the living room with a movie, Colin sat beside me on the porch. He watched the sunset paint the sky in shades of violet and gold.
