The Day I Dropped My Husband at the Airport, My Eight-Year-Old Daughter Warned Me Not to Go Home. Minutes Later, I Saw Why.

I said yes.

The girls spent an hour at our kitchen table and another half hour arranging the stones beside the little tree.

Their laughter drifted through the screen door while I prepared dinner.

I stood quietly listening, then went back to chopping vegetables.

For once, the sound of a normal afternoon did not feel temporary.

It felt like ours.

Inside were his tools.

Screwdrivers.