“Always.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead and went back to his geraniums, and I sat in the golden light and understood that the house was quiet now for the opposite reason it had been quiet before.

Once it had been the silence of a frightened man behind drawn curtains, holding still so as not to be hurt.

Now it was only the silence of peace — of water and pine and an old man’s contentment — the good silence, the kind that means everyone is finally safe.

My father was home.

And so, after a very long time away, was I.

I come out to the cabin most weekends now.