I smile at the notion. “Same here.”

I go on to tell her a bunch of my stories from Italy and she fills me in on what’s been going on with her, but an hour later, I need to get ready for dinner at my mom’s. As we get up from the couch, I head over to my carry-on bag beside the door and dig out my typed manuscript. I hand over the three hundred and fourteen pages with a nervous smile.

“Happy reading.”

When I walk into the living room of my childhood home, I’m surprised when I don’t find my mom or Jen waiting by the door. I use the unexpected moment of privacy to step farther inside and sit down in my dad’s recliner for the first time in a long time, running my hands across the cool leather of the armrests.

“Italy was amazing, Dad,” I say quietly. “But I’m sure you know that. I felt you there with me all the time.”

In the past, my dad’s absence in this world felt like a numbing ache I could never get accustomed to. An amputated limb I kept trying to use. But something changed after the grief-ridden moment of clarity I had at my dining room table in Italy. From then on, my dad was so obviously present that the feeling of missing him switched from emptiness to a calm sense of warmth—something to reach for instead of something to fear.

“Kara! Is that you?” I hear my mom call.

I push my back into the recliner, knowing this is as close as I can get to hugging my dad. I give myself one more second before I stand up and make my way into the kitchen. I’m about to walk in when Mom comes bursting out with Jen following close behind.

“Hey!” she yells, pulling me in for a big squeeze. “You’re finally here!”

“I’m here!”

She lets me go with a happy sigh. “Six months really is too long to be away, Kara. If you go on a trip like that again, I think a couple of weeks is good enough.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say with a smile. Jen makes her way to me next and my jaw almost hits the floor. She is now seven months pregnant and has a full-fledged, in your face baby belly.

“Jen! You’re humongous!” My sister’s intense glare tells me that perhaps I should have chosen a more delicate phrase. “But so beautiful,” I amend. “Glowing. Ethereal.”

“Yeah, you better say I’m freaking ethereal.”

I move forward and give her a tight hug, my stomach bumping her tummy as Mom nudges us out of the doorway and into the dining room so she can begin carrying in the food. Jen takes a step back and pulls me to the side.