There we all were in matching Christmas pajamas Thomas bought on clearance but insisted were designer.
Noah was missing his front teeth.
Susan had crooked bangs she’d cut herself.
I had frosting smeared across my face with one arm wrapped tightly around Thomas’s neck.
“Look at his hair,” Mara said through tears. “Why did he part it like that?”
Michael snorted. “Because he thought gel was a lifestyle.”
Even Susan smiled.
Three days later, we returned to the cemetery together.
The rain was gone. The ground had dried beneath the sunlight, and someone had already placed fresh flowers beside the headstone before we arrived.
Michael immediately accused Mara in the gentlest voice possible.
Of course, it had been her.
Susan knelt first and rested her trembling hand against the stone.
Tears streamed openly down her face now, no longer hidden.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”
I placed a small lantern beside the grave and clicked it on.
Susan looked at the warm glow and broke down all over again.
It looked just like the porch light.
Just like him.
Thomas had spent his entire life telling children who were not his by blood that home is not something you earn—it is something that stays lit for you.
We stood there together in silence for a long time.
Then Susan reached for my hand.
And when we finally turned and walked back toward the road, all five of us moved together like siblings.
