Neither of us moves.
I glance into the back seat.
Ivy is asleep, her head tipped to the side, lashes resting on her cheeks. There’s a faint chocolate smudge on her lip from the snack she demolished in the car.
Her chest rises and falls.
Slow. Steady.
Real.
Maddison’s hand flies to her mouth.
“She’s… really here,” she whispers.
I nod, because if I try to speak, my voice will break. We just sit there for a moment and watch her.
Not talking.
Just… memorizing.
Every freckle. Every curl. Every little piece we were afraid we’d never see again.
Ivy stirs. Her nose wrinkles. She shifts in her seat, blinks once… then again.
Her eyes find mine.
Then Maddison’s.
“Daddy?” she murmurs, still half asleep.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” I say quickly. “We’re both here.”
Maddison, reaching back as far as she can. “Hi, baby.”
Ivy looks around, confused for a second. Then she looks out the window at the house. Recognition slowly dawns on her face.
“This is…” she says.
“You’re home, sweetheart,” Maddison says softly.
I reach back and brush her hair from her forehead. “Are you ready to go inside?”
She blinks again. Then a small, sleepy smile spreads across her face. “Okay.”
Hours later.
Maddison sits across from me in the kitchen. I let my gaze drift from Ivy sleeping on the couch to the rest of the room, like I need to make sure it’s all real. Like if I don’t look away, she might disappear again.
The house is the same.
Same walls. Same soft light over the kitchen counter. Same couch we picked out because Maddison said it felt like something you could fall into at the end of a long day.
But it’s not the same.
Something about it feels… lived in differently.
Changed.
