Pulling up outside our house, I see it through Sam’s eyes. The white clapboard siding is more weathered than I realized. The window panes could use a cleaning. And we could have done a better job of raking leaves this fall.

“Well, here we are,” I say. I glance in the rearview. Sam says nothing, just looks out impassively at the scene before him.

“We’ll have you back home before you know it,” I continue, which once I’ve said it, doesn’t really sound right.

“But we’re so happy to have you in the meanwhile!” I compensate. “Really happy!”

Now I sound manic.

I glance at Oliver. Sam spent the whole ride staring out the back window, answering in monosyllables whenever I said something. I ended up asking Oliver to put that country music station back on.

“Well, come on in.”

At least I tidied up a bit before we left. My eyes scan the hallway, the doors that lead through to the kitchen and living room, and the downstairs bathroom. It’s a smaller house than Sam is used to, by a long way.

“You can put your coat here,” I say.

He’s already taking off his shoes, aligning them neatly on the rack.

“Come on upstairs, I’ll show you to your room.”

Sam trails obediently behind me in his socks. I show him the upstairs bathroom, point out Oliver’s and my room, and open the door to the spare room. I show him the space we’ve cleared in the chest of drawers for his things, and the hangers we’ve put in the wardrobe. I’m starting to feel like some kind of hokey tour guide, introducing these items of furniture to him like he’s never met a chest of drawers before. My voice is too bright and I know I’m over-compensating, but Sam doesn’t roll his eyes or smirk. I kind of wish he would. I don’t know what to do with this detached, robotic attitude. Should I talk to him about Abigail, or is that the last thing he wants right now?

I pull the blinds all the way up and notch them against the wall.

“You look out over the garden, see?”

We bought this place almost two years ago—Oliver’s and Jeff’s mom had finally sold the family home, and ended up gifting some of the income to each of the boys. The house is nothing fancy, but the garden is lovely, in my opinion—old and weather-beaten and graceful, with plants that have clearly been growing there for years. The realtor thought we’d want to cut down the big tree outside the window, but in the end it just didn’t feel right. That tree had been around so much longer than we had. I’ve always liked the view from this room, perched at the top of the house, looking out on that big tree.