The door opened, and my oldest son Ethan stood there, taller than I remembered, wearing a work apron. He stared at me without a word. “Dad,” he finally said, flat and quiet. Behind him, the hallway was filled with laughter and the smell of dinner. I could not speak. My rehearsed words vanished. Then a man’s voice called from the kitchen, “Ethan, who is it?”

Ethan did not answer. Marissa appeared beside him, calm and glowing, a dish towel in her hand. She did not look surprised. “Hello, Daniel,” she said gently. Then she stepped aside, and I saw the table set for six, with a gray-haired man at the head of it, holding a small, worn envelope. On the front, in Marissa’s handwriting, was one word: Rome.