He wiped his hands on a garden towel and walked over to the rocking chair, resting his hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you for coming to visit for my birthday last year,” he whispered, looking out over the quiet water.
I took his hand in mine, feeling the warmth of his skin—smooth, unbruised, and safe.
“I’ll always come home when you need me, Dad,” I said gently. “Always.”
He smiled, leaning down to kiss my forehead, before walking back to his flowers.
For the first time in my life, I knew that the house was quiet not because someone was hiding in fear behind drawn curtains, but because peace had finally returned home.
