The porch creaked slightly beneath my weight, a reminder of its age, much like the dynamics within the household.
I glanced toward the house, half expecting the door to open, for someone else to intervene.
But it remained closed.
The stillness stretched, and I felt the familiar twinge of inadequacy.
There was no denying that the kids often looked to her for answers I should be providing.
She had been their constant, the reliable presence when I was away.
I couldn’t blame them entirely.
Yet, it stung.
“Dad, he’s not moving,” came a small voice from behind me.
I turned to see my youngest, eyes wide with concern.
