Abigail’s steps slowed as the old white house came into view. It has the same wooden fence with its crooked gate. The same porch swing, now with one of its chains replaced. The curtains in the front windows were drawn back, and light spilled in.
She stopped at the gate and stood there unmoving.
From inside came the familiar noise of morning. Clattering dishes, the low murmur of her father’s voice, and the quick, bright laughter of children. Pots banged in the kitchen, chairs scraped against the floor, and someone shouted for more butter.
Her throat tightened. Nothing had changed.
Through the open kitchen window, she caught snatches of conversation along with her mother’s warm voice teasing her father about burning the toast, her father claiming it was “perfectly edible,” and the sound
