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I nod slowly. My son is twenty. He lives in Boston. He studies mechanical engineering. And I learned all of it today.

"He started asking about you months ago," Diana says. "Not the questions he used to ask. Real questions."

"What kind?"

"What happened between us. Why you weren't there. Why you never came looking for him."

That one lands. "I did."

Diana's brow furrows.

"I tried to know what I could. From whatever distance was possible."

She watches me for a moment. "He doesn't know that."

"No." The word comes out rough. "What does he know about me?"

"He knows you served. He knows about the PTSD. He knows we loved each other once and that our marriage fell apart." I wait. She meets my eyes.

"He knows I made mistakes.”

Her admission is simple. No performance. No attempt to rewrite history.

“And he knows you weren't perfect either."

"Fair."

A faint smile touches her mouth. "He doesn't expect you to be."

"What does he expect?"

"I don't think he knows yet." That feels more honest than anything else she could've said.

Diana looks toward the fields. "But he wants to meet you."

I close my eyes for one second. When I open them, she's still there. "When?"

"I told you. I don't know."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said he'll come when he's ready."

"And that's it?"

"That's it." I nod. It's not enough. It's everything.

"I'm not going to push him," she says. "And I'm not going to decide for him anymore. He's twenty now. This belongs to him."

I look at her. "Tell him I'll be here."

Her eyes fill. "Javier."

"Don't tell him he has to come. Don't tell him when." I swallow. "Just tell him whenever he's ready, I'll be here."

She nods. "I will."

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then Diana looks toward the road. The same road Maddy took.