At bedtime, I reached for the old book I had been reading to him for years, the one still unfinished. Alan was fourteen, and he still let me read to him—that was something I treasured more than I could explain.
But before I could open it, he touched my hand.
“Can I read it tonight?” he asked.
I handed it over slowly, careful not to cry again.
“Can I read it tonight?”
He opened it with both hands, turned the page like it was sacred, and began to read, carrying us into the world of fantasy.
At the end of the day, I didn’t need to hear the words “I love you.” I just needed to know I had built a home someone wanted to keep returning to.
