That evening, as the sun kissed the horizon, she watched for him, on her knees at the front window. Mom was making pasta, singing to the radio. The steam from dinner fogged the windows, and the girl wiped it away every couple of minutes until she saw his headlights.
After a year, his tires crunched on the pea gravel driveway once more, home. When he saw his daughter rise to her feet, saw her hands clapping at his arrival, he was overwhelmed. Like the food that fogs the windows, such were his tears. He exhaled deeply, composing himself, pulling his suitcase out of the backseat.
When he reached the top step, the front door flew open and she melted waist-high into his body, into his long, leather coat.
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