Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth.
The children hesitated at the doorway.
“Go on,” Caleb said gently.
Slowly, they stepped inside.
Anna lingered behind.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she said quietly.
Caleb looked at her.
“Yes, I did,” he replied.
She studied him for a moment.
“Why?” she asked.
He exhaled slowly.
“Because I was tired of being alone,” he said. “And you… you were tired of fighting alone.”
Anna’s eyes softened.
For the first time, she didn’t argue.
—
The first weeks were… difficult.
The children didn’t trust him.
They ate quickly, as if the food might disappear. They slept lightly, waking at the slightest noise.
The oldest, Emily, watched him constantly.
“You don’t have to stay up,” Caleb told her one night, finding her sitting by the window.
“I’m making sure,” she said.
“Making sure of what?”
“That this isn’t a trick.”
Caleb nodded slowly.
“That’s fair,” he said.
He left her there—but the next morning, he made sure breakfast was ready before anyone woke.
And the next day.
And the next.
—
Little by little, things began to change.
The children started laughing.
At first, it was small—just a giggle here, a whisper there.
Then one afternoon, Caleb heard something he hadn’t heard in years.
Full, unrestrained laughter.
He stepped outside to find the younger ones chasing each other through the yard, their faces bright with joy.
He stood there, watching.
A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Warm.
Unfamiliar.
“Papa!”
He blinked.
