For three years, I’d searched for my only son without knowing whether I’d ever see him again. I blamed myself for our last argument and replayed every word. Then an unexpected visit brought news I’d stopped daring to hope for, along with questions I wasn’t sure my heart could bear.
The first thing I recognized was the stitching near the pocket.
I’d sewn that little tear in my son’s dark green coat three winters earlier.
Now the coat was draped across two newborn babies on my porch.
“Lucas?”
I looked up and down the driveway.
Nobody stood in front of me.
The first thing I recognized was the stitching near the pocket.
The doorbell had rung just before six. I’d opened it expecting a delivery, not a baby carrier holding two little girls.
Their faces were uncovered, and both wore warm clothes beneath the familiar coat.
