“Dinner’s on the table, sweet pea,” Eleanor said, wiping her hands on her dish towel.

Emma got up from the rug, holding her paper carefully by the edges so the fresh crayon wax wouldn’t smear.

She walked over to the stone fireplace and reached up as high as her small arm could stretch.

She set her finished drawing on the wooden mantelpiece, right beside the silver frame holding Laura’s photograph.

Laura was nineteen in the photograph, smiling on the front porch steps in her high school sweater.

The bright yellow sun on the paper seemed to cast a soft glow across the corner of the glass frame.

Emma turned around and took her seat at the table between Eleanor and me.

I sat down in my chair, picked up my napkin, and looked across the warm table at my daughter’s child.

We had kept our promise to Laura on Highway 24, and Emma was finally home.

The fire popped softly on the hearth, and outside the window, the winter night was still and silent.