The thick, humid heat of the afternoon had given way to a cooler, pine-scented evening. The crickets were out in full force, their rhythmic chirping creating a wall of sound that felt like a lullaby I’d forgotten the words to. We had finished the brisket—which was every bit as life-giving as I remembered—and the men had retreated to the back shed to "look at a lawnmower engine," which was really just code for Dad and Liam having a quiet beer and getting to know one another.
On the front porch, the yellow glow of the bug light cast long, flickering shadows. Jasmine and I were squeezed onto the wooden swing, the chains creaking in a familiar, steady rhythm, while Mom sat in the wicker rocker across from us. For a few beautiful hours, it felt like the last five years had been a bad dream. We
