Preston smiled.

“Mom is right.”

From the kitchen, Naomi heard the three voices and felt the ache of what had been lost alongside the comfort of what could still be built.

She was not obliged to forget anything.

Her sons were not obliged to love anyone on command.

And Preston was finally learning that being a father meant more than recognizing your own face in a child.

It meant staying for the ordinary days, telling the truth when it hurt, and allowing the people you loved to become themselves.

When the boys called him back to the table for one last slice of pie, Preston went without looking at his phone.