She’ll like having a still-living biological grandfather on the only side of her lineage that she knows. And she does like Paul. Hell, aside from this one massive sin of omission, what’s not to like?

But there’s something else. If I’m being honest, Joy isn’t the only one missing family. Jack’s phone call may have been the catalyst for my return home, but the trip has had its high points. The me who lives in the moment has enjoyed breakfasts at Sunny Side Up, snippets of warm talk with Anne, even Truth or Dare with my sisters and daughter before it went downhill. All I have to do is look at the photographs in the attic to remember what being with family was like. Or look into Jack’s eyes to remember what we had. The memories aren’t all bad.

I may not be philosophical about death, but I am, suddenly, about this. When we don’t have something in our lives, we tell ourselves that we don’t need it, that we don’t want it—because the alternative is aching for it, which breeds a sense of loss. So, we remove it from the picture we make of our lives. What we don’t see, we don’t miss.

Then, as Paul said, something happens, and the view changes. In the process of refocusing, we see pieces that we do, in fact, miss and want restored.

That’s where I am right now. I need to repair things with Anne. And with Chrissie. Jack is a whole other story. I’m not sure where to go with that.

Paul is the easy one. He is patient and sincere, and he isn’t going anywhere. I’m not ready to throw myself into his arms. I need time to absorb everything he’s said. For now, though, I want him to know there’s hope.

Sliding a little closer on the bench, I slip an arm through his and, feeling shy but certain, let it stay.

The rest of the world gradually reappears. The circular drive is rimmed with cars, but they are all ours—two rentals plus Anne’s, Bill’s, Paul’s, and mine—meaning that mourners have taken pity on us and gone home. The sea breeze rustles in the shrubs, the surf gathers and rolls, threads of teenage laughter rise from the beach. Margo emerges from the house and stands for a minute at the edge of the porch to listen for the kids before going back inside. She hasn’t seen us. Our funeral garb fades us into the bench.

The crunch of loafers on gravel grows closer, until Jack rounds the bench and drops into the space I’ve just left. Subtly, I slip my arm from Paul’s and, once Jack is settled, ask a quiet, “What did she want?”