The morning air held the first hints of autumn — crisp and golden, with leaves tumbling like whispers along the path to Maple Creek Elementary.
Thomas Harper walked beside his father, clutching Jamie's hand as they neared the school gates. He had grown taller, leaner, and his once-round cheeks were now shaped with the promise of the boy he was becoming. At seven, he asked the kinds of questions that made adults pause before answering.
"Dad," Thomas asked, his eyes fixed on the line of parents ahead, "why don't I have a grandpa?"
Jamie squeezed his hand gently, slowing their pace. "You do," he said softly. "You had one. My dad. But… he passed away before you were born."
"Oh." Thomas nodded, thoughtful. "And Mom's dad?"
Jamie hesitated.
They'd talked about this — how much to share, how early. Ava had always been honest, but gentle, choosing to tell Thomas only what he was ready to hear. The story of Nathaniel Hartley — Ava's estranged father — was a tangle of sadness and distance. He had never come back. No dramatic return. No apology. Just absence.
"He… wasn't part of your mom's life for a long time," Jamie said finally. "And sometimes, people make choices that lead them far away from the people who love them."
"Did Mom love him?"
Jamie looked down, caught by the seriousness in his son's voice. "She did. And I think part of her still does. But sometimes, loving someone doesn't mean you can keep them close."
Thomas was quiet for a while, his small brow furrowed with unspoken thoughts. Then he asked, "Does that mean someone could leave me, even if they love me?"
Jamie knelt right there on the sidewalk, ignoring the cars passing and the late bell echoing faintly through the schoolyard.
"No," he said firmly. "Your mom and I, we're here. We'll always be here. And Hank and June ?They're here too. You have a big family who would cross mountains to find you if you ever got lost."
Thomas smiled, and Jamie brushed his hair back before sending him through the school gates. But as he watched his son run into the yard, a familiar ache stirred in his chest — the same one that surfaced every time he saw shades of Ava's old pain reflected in their son.
Back home, Ava stood barefoot in the kitchen, slicing apples with care and Maeve sat nearby in her high chair, clapping and giggling with sticky fingers.
June arrived with Clara in tow, who squealed as soon as she saw Maeve.
"Guess what Clara did this morning?"June beamed. "She said 'thank you' without me prompting her."
Ava laughed. "You're raising a polite dictator."
Clara climbed up onto the bench, demanding apple slices with regal authority.
June leaned against the counter, watching Ava with quiet admiration. "You're glowing," she said.
Ava rolled her eyes. "I'm sweating."
"No, seriously. You're radiant."
There was a silence, soft and comfortable. Then Ava spoke more quietly. "Thomas asked about my dad today."
June raised her brows. "What did you say?"
"I didn't. Jamie answered. I think he handled it well. But… it made me realize something."
June tilted her head.
Ava's voice was steady. "I've spent so long holding space for the version of my father I wished existed, I forgot to talk about the people who did show up. Like my mom. Like you and Hank. And Jamie. Thomas doesn't need a perfect family tree. He needs to know he's rooted in love."
June smiled. "Well, if he ever needs a family history project, we've got photo albums and enough stories to fill a library."
They both laughed, but Ava's thoughts were already drifting.
Later that evening, after dinner and bedtime stories and a brief dance party with Maeve in the living room, Ava slipped into her studio — the one she used now for writing.She sat at her desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
To Thomas, when you are older —
You asked about my father once. And one day, when you're ready, I'll tell you the whole story. But for now, I want you to know this: family is not just blood. It's the people who walk beside you when you're scared. The ones who remember your favorite cereal. The ones who hold your hand at the doctor and cheer the loudest at your school play.
My father left a void,yes. But you, my darling boy, filled it in a way he never could. You are loved fiercely. Entirely. You are surrounded.
Never doubt that.
She folded the letter and slipped it into a box marked For Someday. A box she'd started the day Thomas was born. It was filled with letters — not like the ones she used to write under the oak tree, grieving what was lost — but ones rooted in hope for what was yet to come.
Outside, the sky turned a dusky lavender. Jamie sat on the porch with Thomas on his lap, pointing at constellations that flickered faintly above the trees. The boy's head rested against his chest, content, safe.
And though the questions might come again — heavier ones, more complex — Jamie knew they'd face them together. As a family.
Because beneath the surface of this life — beneath the letters, the memories, the missed goodbyes — a stronger story had taken root.
One of presence. Of love lived out in the everyday.
And Thomas Harper, their curious, kind-hearted boy, would never doubt where he belonged.