His head snaps up in my direction as I come barreling inside the house. “Ella, what’s wrong?” he asks, pushing away from the table and getting to his feet. “You look upset.”

“No, I’m fine. I promise,” I say, breathless as I take the piece of paper out of my pocket. “In fact, I’m sort of happy right now.”

“Well, I’m glad.” His face contorts with confusion, as he looks down at the paper in my outstretched hand. “What is that?”

“It was in Mom’s journal,” I say and his face falls and his mouth plummets to a frown. “Just take it,” I insist. “And read it. I promise you won’t regret it.”

He hesitates and then takes the paper from me. His fingers tremble as he unfolds it and then smoothes the creases out. His eyes start to skim the paper. Seconds tick by and tears form in the corners of his eyes. The tremble in his hands intensifies the farther down he gets and I can tell he’s about to cry, but not out of pain. He doesn’t look upset or hurt. Disappointed. Or sad. He looks… well, strangely relieved.

When he’s finished, he carefully folds it up and then holds it in his hand like it’s something precious. “You said you got this out of her journal?” he asks as he glances up at me.

I nod as I wrap my coat tight around myself, hoping he’s feeling at least a little happiness knowing he made Mom happy. “It was the last page. Was it… was it her vows for your wedding?”

He shakes his head as he stares at the paper in his hand, a tear or two dripping of his eyes. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen him cry before and witnessing it seems like some sort of miracle that makes me happy but also a little uncomfortable.

He breathes in and out for minutes and then he collects himself and pats my shoulder, giving me this strange look before he pulls me in for a very awkward hug. He smells like cigarettes and paint, but there’s no scent of booze. It’s different and weird, like the hug itself. I remember all those times when I was younger and I watched the other moms at the park hug their kids when they got hurt or just because they wanted to. The many times I watched Micha’s mom hug him when she was happy, sad, or when she wanted to say she was sorry. I remember the first time I was hugged. I was eight and I’d scraped my knee open. Micha tried to hug me better like his mom did with him. His arms barely made it around me before I freaked out and shoved him to the ground. I think about all the hugs that came after that, though, and how each of them became easier.