There was a photograph of Dad beside our kitchen table.
Another showed me sitting on the wooden swing beneath the oak tree.
And another captured the three painted blue birds above our kitchen window.
Ethan had seen these photographs many times.
Still, that evening, he studied them carefully.
“Your father painted those himself?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Every feather.”
He pointed toward one of the birds.
“This one’s wing looks crooked.”
I laughed.
“That was always my favorite.”
Then I ran my finger over the photograph of our old kitchen.
“Sometimes I wish I could go back there,” I admitted. “Just once. Sit at that table and listen to Dad cooking breakfast.”
Ethan looked at me.
Then back at the photograph.
He didn’t say anything.
I assumed he was simply listening.
I had no idea that those words meant more to him than I could possibly imagine.
On the morning of our fifth anniversary, I woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
