A year after the auction, Alexander came to the lake house on a bright Saturday morning.
Eleanor was nearly one, determined to stand, and utterly unwilling to accept that her legs were not yet ready.
I had opened the back door to let in the spring air.
The lake shone beneath a clear sky, and the old house smelled of coffee, clean laundry, and the lemon soap my mother used to keep by the sink.
Alexander set a small wooden toy on the table.
“I checked the label,” he said. “No paint, no loose pieces.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s still only a toy.”
“I know.”
He smiled, relieved that I understood he was not trying to make it mean more.
Eleanor reached for the toy, then reached for his hand.
He crouched beside her.
“Good morning, little one.”
She clapped both hands against his cheek.
I watched them from the doorway, feeling the peace of the moment settle around me.
