First message
The smell of cinnamon and warm apples filled the kitchen as I wiped little smudges of flour off Emily’s cheek. She giggled and held up her crooked pie crust like it was a masterpiece, and I couldn’t help but smile. Jack was on the floor nearby, utterly absorbed in building a fort out of couch cushions and half the laundry I hadn’t folded yet. It was chaotic, but it was the kind of chaos I’d come to love. I was just about to herd them both toward the table when I heard the front door open—the low creak followed by the distinct sound of his footsteps. My heart did its usual stutter, a traitorous little flutter I tried to ignore. He was home.