a two-bedroom brick house with old, faded curtains and a small porch that my father painted a cheerful yellow every spring, but it was filled to the brim with laughter.

When I moved out after the wedding, Mom cried softly in my arms, her small frame shaking with the effort of letting go. Dad tried to hide his own tears behind a watery smile. I remember saying, “I’ll visit every Sunday,” and they both nodded, pretending to believe me, even though we all knew life would soon get busy, pulling us in different directions.