They'd stayed long after the worst had passed, and I think in some quiet way, they were waiting until I truly smiled again. Until the house felt like a home again. 
So when they sat us down one evening, hands folded across the table like they had rehearsed it, and said they were thinking of finally taking that long trip through southern Italy they'd always talked about, I couldn't even pretend to be surprised.
"It's time," my mom said gently. "You've got this now." I just smiled and nodded, feeling sad but understanding.

Thomas however was a different 온라인카지노게임. He just got up and went to the kitchen to "make dinner because it was getting late."

Dad followed him. He smiled, but there was a softness in his face that held a kind of ache.
"Well," he said gently, "it's time Thomas. You're back home now. You've got your rhythm again. Everyone's okay."
Thomas didn't look up. He stood at the stove, hunched slightly, chopping herbs with more force than necessary, like the cutting board had insulted him.
"No," he said, barely above a murmur. "You're not leaving."
Dad brows pulled together. "Son—"
"No." The knife hit the board too hard. "You're not leaving."
He moved too quickly, stirring the pot beside him with a sharpness that sent water sloshing over the edge. The steam blurred his glasses. His jaw clenched, You're just tired. Sit down. I'm making that pasta you like."
I stood at the other end of the room, frozen mid-step, watching the way Thomas's shoulders tightened. Dad didn't move.
"I'm not leaving your life, Thomas," he said softly. "Just the house."
"I don't care." Thomas's voice cracked, barely holding together. "You're not leaving....me"
Silence pressed in. The air felt dense.
My heart ached for him—for the boy in the man, the one who had clung to my father like the last piece of safe ground during a storm. Dad stepped forward, slow and steady, like approaching something breakable. He placed a warm hand on Thomas's back.
"Look at everything you've rebuilt," he said, voice low and full. "Look at what you've made here. This is your life now. Your family. You don't need me in the next room to keep doing it right."
Thomas didn't answer. He kept stirring like the motion alone might hold something together. Then finally, his voice, so quiet I almost missed it: "I want you in the next room."
A pause. "I like knowing you're there."
Dad's smile faltered but held. "I'm only a call away. Always." He leaned in just a little closer. "And if you make that terrible chicken again, I will fly back and stage an intervention."
That made Thomas snort, reluctantly. The tension didn't leave, not entirely, but it softened at the edges.
When he left, the silence felt thick but Thomas came and sat beside me on the floor, where Lola was stacking cups and Alice helping her. He leaned his head on my shoulder and said, "He made the world feel safer."
"He did," I whispered. "But so did you," I nudged his arm gently, our shoulders pressed together as the girls giggled beside us. "And he's a better cook," I said, with a smirk playing on my lips. 
Thomas turned his head slowly, mock offense lighting his eyes. "Wow. Betrayal in my own kitchen?"
I laughed, leaning into him. "You make great pasta. He just... doesn't burn the garlic."
He squinted at me. "One time. I burnt it one time."
I kissed his cheek, still smiling. "I'm just saying—if he opens a restaurant, we're booking the first table."