But immediately, a cold draft of anxiety swept through me.

I thought of David’s face, dark with anger, when I had mentioned Harold before.

I thought of the way David clung to his father’s old flannel shirts, keeping them in his own closet.

“David won’t see it that way,” I said, looking down at my hands.

“He is still hurting,” Harold said gently.

“Grief does strange things to a young man’s heart.”

“He thinks I am trying to erase his father,” I said.

“You could never do that,” Harold replied.

“Thomas is a part of who you are.”

“Just as Margaret is a part of me.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the realization settle between us.

The waitress returned and refilled our cups.

Outside, a light flurry of snow began to fall, dusting the quiet suburban street.

We talked for another hour, sharing small details about Oakhaven.

Harold remembered Margaret talking about the old limestone church on the hill.

“Thomas was baptized there,” I said, smiling at the memory.

“And Margaret was confirmed there,” Harold said.