The door opened, and a tall man in a flour-dusted apron stood there, holding a wooden spoon. Behind him, laughter drifted from the kitchen, and the smell of fresh bread filled the hallway. “Can I help you?” he asked politely. I stammered Marissa’s name. Before he could answer, my son, who had grown a full head taller, appeared beside him and stopped cold. “Dad?” he whispered, and the laughter in the house went silent.

Then Marissa stepped into the hallway, drying her hands on a towel. She looked calm, rested, and almost unrecognizable in a bright yellow dress. My daughter hid behind her, clutching her sleeve. Marissa’s eyes met mine, and she said softly, “Hello, Gavin. I wondered if you would come.” Then she turned to the man beside her and gently took his hand. I felt the ground tilt beneath my feet.