“What did he want?” she asked.

“He wanted to clear his conscience,” I said, walking back toward the table. “Or at least try to.”

I looked down at the children, who were now looking up at me with curious eyes.

“Is everything okay, Dad?” Noah asked.

The word “Dad” still felt like a fragile glass ornament in my chest, beautiful but easily shattered.

“Everything is fine, Noah,” I said, forcing a gentle smile. “Just some old business.”

I sat back down on the wooden chair, the legs scraping softly against the floorboards.

“Can we finish the drawing?” Lila asked, pointing her yellow crayon at the corner of the page.

“Of course we can,” I said, reaching for my blue pencil.

We worked in silence for another hour, the only sound being the howling wind outside and the scratch of wax on paper.

When the children finally grew tired, Maren led them upstairs to the small bedroom with the sloped ceiling.

I stayed downstairs, sitting by the dying embers of the fireplace.

The scent of pine smoke and damp salt air hung thick in the living room.