“Elena, sweetheart,” he said, and his voice was clear and easy, none of the old fear in it.

“Yes, Dad?” He wiped his hands on a garden towel and came over and rested his hand on my shoulder, and looked out at the still bright water where my mother had loved to watch the light.

“Thank you,” he said, “for coming home for my birthday.” I reached up and took his hand — warm, unmarked, unafraid — and held it.

“I’ll always come home when you need me,” I said.