“I’m leaving Colorado,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Where?”
“Montana. There’s a residential program for veterans and their families. They offered me a permanent role.”
“That’s good work.”
“I think so.”
“Do the children know?”
“I was going to tell them after Christmas. With you present.”
I nodded.
He looked toward them again.
“I used to think a name was something you inherited,” he said. “Now I think it’s something people survive.”
I said nothing.
Then he added, “They survived mine better than I deserved.”
The honesty no longer shocked me.
Maybe that was growth.
Maybe it was simply time.
From the lawn, Noah shouted, “Mama! Aaron says he needs reinforcements!”
Aaron looked up at me, snow in his hair, love plain on his face.
And suddenly, I knew.
Not with fear.
Not with urgency.
With peace.
I walked down the porch steps.
Aaron met me halfway, laughing, breath clouding in the cold.
