“Come inside, Dad,” Paul said quietly.
“Please.”
I folded the envelope carefully and put it in my own pocket.
Not yet.
I needed a moment before I could read it with people watching.
The house was full.
Someone had hung a banner above the fireplace — white paper, hand-lettered in blue marker: *Congratulations, Dad.* The letters were uneven.
Someone had done it in a hurry.
That made it worse, somehow.
That made it real.
My neighbor Ruth came forward first.
She had brought a casserole dish and was holding it with both hands like an offering.
“We’re so proud of you, John,” she said.
“Margaret would have been beside herself.”
The name hit me the way it always did — a small flinch I had learned to hide.
Margaret.
My wife of forty-one years.
“Thank you, Ruth,” I managed.
Daniel appeared at my elbow.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“I want to know how you found the letter,” I said.
