“My wife passed away too,” I said softly. “Eight years ago.”
The baker nodded, her expression full of quiet understanding. She reached out and patted my hand once, rough and warm as a worn leather glove. “Then you know why places like this matter, don’t you? They don’t hold onto grief. They hold onto the warmth people left behind before they moved on.”
When we walked back out to the RV, the sun was dipping below the tree line, splashing amber and violet across the Virginia sky. Jason leaned against the side fender, looking out over the valley.
“Dad?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m sorry again. For everything.” He swallowed hard. “When I stood in that courtroom—well, not a courtroom, but at the dealership—I thought my life was over because I lost my things. Sitting here right now… I realize I hadn’t even started living mine.”
I walked over, resting my hand on his shoulder. “The road has a way of teaching you arithmetic, son. It strips away everything that doesn’t matter until all you’re left with is what fits in your hands.”
