Benjamin smiled faintly.
Then he looked at Hannah.
“You used to call me Benny.”
Her face crumpled.
“I still do.”
He stared at the photograph.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he asked a question so ordinary that it shattered me.
“Do you still make pancakes on Sundays?”
I began to cry.
“Every Sunday.”
“With chocolate chips?”
“Always.”
He rubbed his eyes.
“I remember the smell.”
I wanted to embrace him.
Every part of me wanted to hold him the way I had when he was twelve.
But I stayed seated.
I let him decide.
Finally, he stood.
“Can I…?”
I was already opening my arms.
He stepped forward.
And for the first time in five years, I held my son.
Not a memory.
Not a photograph.
Not a dream.
My son.
His shoulders shook against mine.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.
I held him tighter.
