They could change paperwork.
They could even change the course of our lives.
But they could never change who had shown up, who had stayed, and who our children knew as home.
Caleb stirred.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“It’s weird.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
Then he looked down at Leah sleeping beside him.
“You think Dad still has my drawing?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because some things matter too much to throw away.”
He thought about that.
Then nodded.
Outside the window, the clouds stretched endlessly beneath us.
Three years earlier, an announcement over an airplane speaker had wiped the smiles from our faces.
It had felt like the moment our family ended.
I know better now.
It was the moment the lies ended.
And somehow, from what remained, we built something stronger.
Not perfect.
Not simple.
But ours.
