His son was sitting on the porch steps.
Owen James Harlan had turned seven in March, on a video call that kept freezing, so Daniel had watched him blow out the candles in three stuttering stills. He wore a forest-green hoodie a size too big, sleeves pulled over his hands, the drawstrings chewed flat at the ends. He had grown. Everyone had warned Daniel about that, and it still hit him: the boy's legs had gotten longer, his face had lost some roundness and found a jaw. Behind him, in the open doorway, stood Claire. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back, a few strands loose at her temples, and one hand held the doorframe as if the house might tip.
Owen saw him and stood up so fast he nearly fell.
"Dad! You’re home!"