The two weeks before Noah’s visit passed in a steady, almost meditative rhythm that neither of us had expected. The rain gave way to bright, cool autumn days, and Maple Lane transformed into a tapestry of gold, orange, and deep red. Elias and I used the time intentionally — not to hide, but to prepare. We cleaned the house together, rearranged the living room so it felt welcoming rather than guarded, and even drove to the next town over to buy fresh sheets and towels for the guest room, even though Noah would likely stay at the small inn downtown.
One Saturday morning, while we were raking the last of the fallen leaves into neat piles, Elias paused and leaned on his rake. “I keep imagining the weekend,” he said. “Noah sitting on the porch with us. Amina watching to see how we treat him. I
