The lawyer nodded.
"Agreed."
At the Williams apartment, Marcus checked the clock every three minutes. He had imagined his father's homecoming for months. Sometimes David arrived in those imaginings carrying his duffel bag and Marcus ran down the sidewalk. Sometimes they went directly for burgers. Sometimes Marcus surprised him with dinner and David pretended to cry over macaroni the way he had after Marcus made pancakes at age seven.
None of those versions included a suspension letter on the kitchen table. At 10:13, a taxi turned onto the block. Marcus was at the window before Dorothy could stand. The car stopped.
Colonel David Williams stepped out. He was not wearing combat fatigues. He had changed during transit into his Army service uniform because he had been scheduled for a formal return briefing later that day. The uniform was immaculate despite the travel: dark coat, ribbons aligned, polished shoes, insignia catching the November light.
But Marcus did not see the ribbons first. He saw his father. He opened the apartment door before David reached the steps. For half a second both froze.
Then Marcus ran. David dropped his duffel bag. Marcus hit him hard enough to make him take a step backward. David wrapped both arms around his son and held him against his chest.
Eight months disappeared. Marcus tried to speak. What came out was a sob.
"Hey," David whispered. "Hey. I'm here."
"I'm sorry."
David pulled back.
"For what?"
"Your homecoming."
"Stop."
Marcus wiped his face with his sleeve.
"Dad-"
"Look at me."
Marcus did.
"You did not ruin anything."
"But-"
"Nothing."
David put one hand on the back of his son's neck.
"I have been thinking about getting home to you every day for eight months. A school administrator does not get to take that away."
Dorothy stood in the doorway crying openly now. David looked at her.
"Mom."
She pointed a finger at him.
"Don't you 'Mom' me. Come here."
He obeyed. Dorothy hugged him as hard as Marcus had. For several minutes they said nothing about school.
David carried his duffel inside. He drank water. Dorothy made coffee. Marcus sat across from him and studied the changes eight months had made: a little more gray near his temples, deeper lines around his eyes, a healing scrape across one knuckle.
David noticed Marcus studying him.
"I still look good."
Marcus laughed despite everything.
"Grandma says you look old."
"Your grandmother has needed glasses since 1998."
Dorothy called from the kitchen, "I can hear you." That small normal moment mattered. Then David's eyes went to the blue Tupperware on the table. He became still.
"That's Angela's."
Marcus nodded. David picked it up carefully.
"What happened to the corner?"
"It hit the trash can."
David's thumb moved over the widened crack. His jaw tightened.
"Show me everything."
For the next forty-five minutes, Marcus did. Not Dorothy. Marcus. David insisted on that.