“You’re disappointed.”

“No. I mean, this is better, right?” My sister’s eyes were shining. “He commented on my blog.”

Amy filched a carrot from the cutting board. “Lots of people comment on your blog. I don’t see why that’s so special.”

“That’s why they broke up,” I explained. “Because of something she wrote.”

“Oh. So, it’s like a peace offering.”

“His mother’s recipe,” Jo repeated, like she couldn’t get over it.

Amy shrugged. “I still think he should have called. Or texted. This is sort of stalker creepy.”

“He is not a stalker,” Jo declared.

“He left you a package on the porch. That says stalker to me. You should be more careful about setting boundaries.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. And then she laughed. “Look who’s talking. Instagram queen.”

Amy smiled like a cat in the cream.

“All right, children,” I said. To my sisters? The twins? “Time to wash up for supper.”

Peace restored, we cleared away the nail polish and set the table.

It wasn’t until much later, after my sisters had left for the farm, that I had a chance to open my computer and read Jo’s blog for myself.

A wave of longing rolled over me as I read. The story was so Jo. It was so us, the way we used to be. The wave receded, leaving an ache behind.

I was reading the comments—almost a hundred of them—when John came into the kitchen. “Down for the count,” he reported.

I managed a wobbly smile. “Thanks, honey.” Bedtime with Daddy was becoming a routine. A good one, for all of us.

He put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay, babe?”

My throat felt tight. “Jo wrote a story on her blog. About the first Christmas Daddy was deployed.”

“And that upset you.”

I swallowed. Nodded. “It’s just . . . It made me remember a lot of things. How special it felt. How close we all were.”

“You were. You are. Your family intimidated the hell out of me when we started dating. Still does, sometimes. Especially Aunt Phee.”

I grasped his hand. Squeezed gratefully. “You were wonderful with her last night.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I told him about the visit to the hospital, about my father’s trip to D.C., about my mother asking him to move out. John listened in his quiet way, not interrupting, his warm, brown eyes on my face. “I thought their marriage was perfect,” I said. “That my mother was perfect. But now . . .”

“Your mom is great.”

“My family is a mess.”

“You’re still a family.”

“John, my parents are separating.”

“My dad walked out on my mom. That makes him a lousy dad. But it didn’t make us—Mom and my brother and me—less of a family.”

I flushed. “It’s just . . . Reading Jo’s story, it took me back. It’s all true, but it’s not true. Like everything I remember, everything I felt, wasn’t real.”

“People change,” John said. “Bad things happen. That doesn’t mean the good things didn’t happen. You can remember the good things.”