That word folded seven years into one breath. I crossed the room and grabbed my son. He was real — bone and warmth and shaking shoulders. He smelled like rain, airport soap, and someone who’d lived too long with fear.

“I looked for you,” I sobbed. “I never stopped.”

“I know,” he cried. “Dad told us.”

“Why didn’t you come home?”

He pulled back, his face twisting. “Dad said Michael would find Sophie if we did.”

Sophie sobbed harder. Noah looked at her. “I’m sorry. I thought staying away protected you.”