“Your father insisted on that terrible sentence,” Michael said, laughing. “We told him it was too much!”
I turned toward Robert.
“Too much? I thought my entire family was abandoning me!”
He looked genuinely sorry.
“I know, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have frightened you like that.”
I hit his arm lightly.
“Robert, in fifty-two years, that is the most terrifying thing you have ever said to me!”
Everyone burst out laughing.
And then I started crying.
Not because I was afraid anymore.
But because, through the open front door, I could see a large family photograph hanging on the living room wall.
Underneath it, our children had placed a small sign:
“From now on, we’re not missing another holiday together.”
That evening, all of us sat around the same dinner table for the first time in years.
The grandchildren were laughing. Our children were telling stories. Robert sat beside me, holding my hand beneath the table.
Nobody was checking flight schedules.
