“I want a roof I can pay for.”
“Yes.”
“I want my daughter to stop asking if we're moving again.”
Jack looked toward Gracie.
The child slept with one hand curled beneath her cheek.
Sarah continued:
“I want ordinary things.”
Jack understood that too.
Ordinary.
He had once possessed them without knowing their value.
Mary complaining about muddy boots.
Lucy refusing vegetables.
Laundry.
Broken toys.
Bread cooling on a counter.
Ordinary had once felt guaranteed.
Now it sounded luxurious.
Jack said:
“I lost my wife.”
Sarah looked up.
“And daughter.”
Her face changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Six years.”
“How old?”
“Mary was thirty-one.”
He swallowed.
“Lucy was four.”
Sarah closed her eyes briefly.
Jack looked toward the staircase.
“Her room is upstairs.”
Understanding crossed Sarah's face.
“The room you offered us?”
“No.”
“The other one.”
Sarah nodded.
Jack continued.
“I haven't changed anything.”
“Since?”
“Since.”
Sarah's voice stayed gentle.
“That must be hard.”
“No.”
Jack stared into the fire.
“The hard part would be changing it.”
Sarah did not tell him he needed to.
That was one of the first things he loved about her.
Though he would not understand that until much later.
She simply sat beside him.
Two people.
Two losses.
No advice.
At midnight, Sarah carried sleeping Gracie upstairs.
Jack prepared the spare room.
Fresh sheets.
Extra blanket.
Then he returned downstairs.
The fire still glowed.
He sat in his chair.
Christmas had been louder than usual.
He felt exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
Upstairs, Sarah woke sometime after midnight.
For several seconds she did not know where she was.
Then remembered.
Callahan farm.
Storm.
Jack.
She reached toward Gracie.
Empty.
Sarah sat upright.
“Gracie?”
No answer.
She opened the door.
Hallway dark.
A faint glow came from below.
Sarah descended.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped.
Jack had fallen asleep in the chair beside the fireplace.
His boots remained on.
One arm rested across his chest.
Gracie stood beside him.
Barefoot.
Hair loose.
Holding the edge of her blanket.
Sarah nearly called her.
Then waited.
Gracie touched Jack's hand.
He did not wake.
She climbed carefully onto his lap.
Jack shifted instinctively.
One arm wrapped around her.
Protective.
Automatic.
Gracie curled against his chest.
Sarah stood in the darkness.
Her heart hurt.
Not because anything was wrong.
Because it looked too right.
Jack's large hand rested across Gracie's back.
The child sighed.
Then whispered:
“Dad?”
Jack's eyes opened.
His body froze.
Sarah saw the moment the word reached him.
Gracie did not notice.
She was already half asleep again.
Jack looked down at her.
For one terrible second, Sarah thought he might push her away.
Instead his face broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
His eyes simply filled.
Jack lifted one hand toward Gracie's curls but stopped before touching them.
Sarah stepped forward.
“Jack.”
He looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
Sarah whispered immediately: