Eliza threw her arms around him the moment he crossed the threshold.
“You did it,” she said into his coat, her voice muffled.
Thomas hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “We’re alright.”
For the first time since his father died, he believed it.
Not completely. Not without doubt.
But enough.
Spring didn’t come all at once.
It arrived in small, stubborn ways. A patch of earth breaking through the snow. The faint return of birdsong. The slow drip of melting ice from the eaves.
Thomas noticed it all.
He planted seeds with hands that had grown stronger over the winter. Fixed fences that had held just long enough. Opened windows to let in air that no longer bit at his lungs.
His mother came outside one morning.
She stood on the porch, pale and quiet, watching him work.
“Thomas,” she said.
He turned, surprised.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she stepped down into the yard.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I should have—”
He shook his head.
“You stayed,” he said simply. “That’s enough.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
This time, he didn’t look away.
Leave a Comment