After our guests left, Tommy helped stack plates and asked whether the old house would ever belong to us again.

“No,” I said.

“That’s okay.” He looked around our small living room.

“We have enough seats for the people who come.”

I pulled him into a hug.

Outside, light snow began drifting past the window, and the bakery’s morning shift switched on the ovens downstairs.

The smell of bread rose through the building as if someone were preparing the next day for us already.

PART 24