He must have been watching from the window.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
My father had aged, but in that moment, he looked exactly like the man from my childhood. Solid. Broad-shouldered. Trying with everything in him not to break.
Jesse stood at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Dad,” he said.
My father crossed the porch in three strides.
Then he grabbed his son and held him.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
He held Jesse as though someone might still try to take him back.
Jesse clutched him just as hard.
My mother stood in the doorway behind them.
One hand was pressed flat against her chest.
When my father finally let go, Jesse turned to her.
He looked seventeen and forty at the same time.
“Mom,” he whispered.
