Emma Callahan.
Noah pinned his beneath it.
Noah Callahan.
Tyler hesitated with his.
Then Emma handed him a pin.
“You can put yours there,” she said, pointing to a spot not too close, not too far.
Tyler’s face softened.
He pinned it.
Tyler Callahan.
For a moment, I had to step outside.
The orchard was green now, leaves flickering in sunlight. The old house stood beyond the hedges, no longer my parents’ kingdom, no longer the center of gravity. It was just a house. Brick, wood, windows, roof.
Rose House was smaller.
But it had become enormous.
Behind me, children laughed.
Inside, every name had a place.
That afternoon, when the crowd thinned, a car pulled slowly up the gravel drive.
My mother’s car.
My body went still.
Emma saw it through the window. Noah came to stand beside her. Tyler stopped stacking cups.
Dad, who had been fixing a loose porch rail, set down his tools.
