He grabbed his briefcase and left the office without a word. The drive to Greenwich felt endless. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, while his mind refused to calm down. Anger at his job, at life, at God who had taken Amanda, leaving him with three sons he no longer knew how to reach. When he arrived home, he felt nothing, just a draining weariness.
He entered, loosened his tie, expecting the usual silence, the one that reminded him every day that his wife was gone and that his children were no longer children. But that day, something had changed.
He heard a laugh — a real laugh, uncontrollable, deep, that took his breath away. His sons, Rick, Nick, and Mick, were laughing.
Eight months without laughter. Since that tragic evening when a drunk driver had struck Amanda as she went to get their medicine. His children had become ghosts in their own home. But now, they were laughing. His briefcase fell to the ground.
He followed the sound to the veranda, where Amanda loved to spend time. And what he saw stopped him cold.
