was Thursday, spaghetti night.
He came through the front door. This time, he left it unlocked.
He entered the kitchen. He kissed my cheek. He snatched garlic bread from the counter before I could protest.
Then he gazed through the kitchen window. Mike was working on a birdhouse at his backyard bench.
“Mom,” Luke said. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“When I came home that day,” he said. “In August. And I locked the door.”
“I remember.”
He gazed outside at his dad.
“I was so scared I
