DAD.
BISCUIT.
Evelyn looked toward Daniel.
“She’s writing more.”
“She’s speaking.”
Evelyn went completely still.
“What?”
“Three weeks.”
He smiled.
“Words first. Short phrases now.”
Evelyn looked toward the hallway leading upstairs.
Her eyes brightened.
“Daniel.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you—”
“I know.”
She nodded.
Neither needed more.
Daniel removed a folded drawing from the sideboard.
“She made something for you.”
“For me?”
He handed it over.
Evelyn opened it.
Birch Road.
Oak tree.
Three figures.
One tall.
One small.
One medium height.
At the edge of the page stood an orange cat with a white patch beneath its chin.
In careful handwriting:
MY FAMILY.
Evelyn did not move.
Daniel watched her face.
She looked at the words again.
Then at him.
“We don’t have a cat.”
The comment escaped because the alternative was saying something far more vulnerable.
Evelyn laughed softly.
“That seems fixable.”
Daniel smiled.
Fully.
“Stay for dinner.”
The sentence changed something.
Not dramatically.
No confession.
No kiss.
No declaration.
Just a door opened several inches wider.
“Okay,” Evelyn said.
They ate on the back porch.
Lily sat between them.