I never contacted him.
I heard things occasionally.
The woman he had left me for eventually left him.
His jobs became unstable.
He moved from city to city.
Apparently, he sometimes asked old friends about us, but he never called.
Years passed.
Then one rainy evening, there was a knock at my door.
When I opened it, I barely recognized him.
Daniel looked older than his years.
His hair was gray at the temples, his coat was soaked, and the confidence he once carried had disappeared.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he dropped to his knees.
“I made the biggest mistake of my life,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Please,” he continued. “I’ve thought about you and the kids every day. I was selfish. I was stupid. I threw away everything that mattered.”
I felt something inside me twist.
Not love.
Not anymore.
Just the echo of a wound that had finally healed.
“Please let me come home,” he whispered.
I almost laughed at the word.
Home.
Daniel had no idea what that word meant anymore.
I stepped aside.
“Before I answer you,” I said, “there’s something you need to see.”
He slowly stood and entered.
The first thing he noticed was the enormous family photograph hanging on the wall.
Fourteen grown and nearly grown children surrounded me.
Behind us stood the first bakery.
Under the photograph were smaller framed pictures showing each stage of the business.
Our first handwritten menu.
Our first storefront.
