73

"Mr. Torres referred to this as a 'teachable moment,' but I think he just wanted me to end the awkward silence."

Leo adjusted the microphone, the lights of the auditorium blinding him as he gazed out into the sea of parents, teachers, even that snarky junior from the science fair. His nervous palms dampened the podium, the wood warped from decades of nervous speakers.

"Fatherhood," he began, voice cracking like an adolescent's. "Turns out it doesn't have to be about having all the answers. It's about being there when your hands are empty."

There was a murmur of ripples through the assembly.

He went on, the words spilling out unscripted and raw. "I pawned my wife's wedding ring once. Told her it was 'priorities.' But the reality? I was scared. Scared to fail, to be my dad, to have a daughter I couldn't solve with a bonus check or a good school."

Someone gasped. Someone shifted in their seat.

"Then my kid did a science report on forgiveness. Did time-lapse photography of wilting succulents replenishing themselves on chamomile tea. Said 'love makes things grow.'" He laughed, hollow. "Turns out she was talking about us."

The crowd leaned in, breaths in unison.

Leo's thumb brushed the scar on his palm—the one he'd acquired that night he shattered a bottle in a hotel barroom. "Regret's a heavy thing. It feels like concrete in your belly. But here's the thing: you can build a wall with it, or you can pave a road."

A woman in the front pew dabbed at her eyes. Her husband took her hand.

"When I was twelve, my dad left. Left a note saying 'sometimes men need space.' Turns out space is a nice way of saying running. And running. it makes footprints. Deep ones."

The room went quiet.

Leo's tone dropped. "I'm not saying I'm cured. Hell, I still lose it when the dryer breaks or Liana forgets her meds. But maybe… maybe being broken isn't the opposite of whole. Maybe it's just a different point of view."

He paused, the silence stretching out until a junior in the rear snorted. "So you're saying being a dad is like a group project? Messy, unfair, and you always get stuck with the kid who doesn't charge their laptop?"

The room erupted into nervous laughter.

Leo grinned, a wave of gratitude washing over him. "Worse. At least in group projects, somebody brings snacks."

Amara's laugh cut through the noise—warm, unguarded, the sound he'd lacked in the dark years. Her eyes locked with his, the wedding ring on her finger flashing in the light.

He pushed away from the podium. "Look, I'm going to say something really stupid now. But here goes: Love isn't a verb. It's a catastrophe. A hurricane you weather together or not at all. And if you're lucky, the devastation makes a damn fine view."

The applause started modestly, then increased—a standing ovation, chairs scraping, hands clapping until they ached.

Liana whooped from the balcony, violin case thumping against the railing. "Tell them about the time you set the toaster on fire, Dad!"

Leo raised his hands, laughing. "Another story for another day. But seriously—"

He locked eyes with Amara, the unspoken between them a live wire. "If you’re out there, wondering if it’s too late to say sorry… it’s not. The trick’s remembering ‘sorry’ don’t fix anything unless it’s followed by ‘next time.’ And ‘next time’ is a marathon, not a sprint."

As the crowd filed out, they were trapped by Ms. Chen from the art department. "Your daughter's project… the abstract one? The judges would like to showcase it in the district gallery."

Leo's chest swelled. "Tell them 'next time invite the whole family.'"

Amara found him backstage, her scent of lavender and hospital soap cutting through the sweat and stage fright.

"'A marathon, not a sprint,'" she breathed, tracing the words on his cheek. "When did you take up running?"

"Since I found quitting's the one race I'm not good at." He cupped her face, the wedding ring a cool presence on his palm. "You still mad about the ring?"

Her laughter was a surrender. "I'm trying."

The silence stretched, electric, until Liana burst through the door, violin case bouncing. "Dad! Some reporter is wondering if your 'public apology tour' is handing out free chamomile tea samples!"

Amara laughed. Leo buried his face in her neck, laughing.

They walked outside, the autumn air sharp with fall, and Leo's phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: "Your grandmother's box is ready. Portland Trust & Savings. Room 7B. Come alone."

His blood went cold.

Amara noticed the pallor draining from his face. "What is it?"

He showed her the text.

Her breath hitched. "Who…?"

The message pinged again.

Unknown Number: “P.S. Tell Amara the photo wasn’t fake. She’s been living in the wrong timeline.”

“What does that mean?” Amara’s voice shook, but her grip on Leo’s hand was ironclad.

Leo stared at the phone, the words blurring. “It means… we’re not the only ones who’ve been keeping secrets.”

Liana's violin wailed in the parking lot—a torn, frightened note.

Somewhere, a clock began to tick backward.

And off in the distance, a train whistle wailed.

-------

"Mom, if you're putting in one more 'emergency sweater,' we're donating the car!" Liana's voice floated from the garage, muffled by the duffel bag she'd dove headfirst into.

Amara zipped the fifth sweater—a hand-me-down from Grandma’s “just in case” stash—into her suitcase. "It’s Colorado! What if it snows in July?!"

Leo appeared in the doorway, balancing a wobbly stack of Liana’s art supplies and a half-eaten granola bar. "Newsflash: Colorado’s not the Arctic. And if it is, we’ll buy alpaca socks. Now please tell me that’s not Grandma’s denture cup repurposed as a pencil holder."

Amara's cheeks turned pink. She'd found the cup in the attic, half buried under piles of dusty yearbooks. "It's. vintage. And useful."

"Useful's a euphemism for 'sentimental hoarding.'" Leo threw the granola bar in the trash, barely missing Liana's sneaker-clad foot. "Besides, since when do you keep Grandma's dentures?"

"Since she left them in Jell-O at Thanksgiving and scared the neighbors!" Amara's laughter rose, warm and unanticipated.

The tension—the unspoken what if Portland changes everything—dissolved in the sun that streamed through the garage door.

The rental SUV groaned as they twisted into the Rockies, Liana's violin case wedged between her knees.

"First person to puke gets to drive," Leo said, side-eyeing Amara's notorious motion sickness.

"Classy," she replied, but her hand found his under the dashboard, solid and certain.

At a roadside stop, Liana headed straight for the gift shop and returned with a snowglobe that read "World's Okayest Family" in sparkly letters.

"Ha. See? Even the souvenirs love us." She shook the globe, and snowflakes swirled around a plastic moose.

That night, huddled around a campfire that Liana claimed she'd built "with one match and sheer talent," Amara incinerated marshmallows until they were charred.

"See?" Leo grinned, holding up his perfectly toasted treat. "Practice makes perfect."

"Or luck." She smacked his hand, and the marshmallow dropped into the fire.

Liana guffawed, tossing a log onto the fire. "Dad's got a black thumb for s'mores. Who knew?"

As the stars sprawled out above, Amara leaned into Leo's side, his body heat seeping through her sweater.

"Remember when we were stuck in a blizzard here?" she whispered. "Liana was two, and you swore we'd die of hypothermia in the minivan."

Leo snorted. "I was dramatic. You're the one who sang 'Baby Shark' for three hours to settle her down."

"Trauma bonding," Liana said dryly, photographing the fire. "Gonna title this as 'Our Hot Take on Family Vacations.'"

The next morning, they strolled to a lake Liana insisted was "totally haunted by the ghost of a trombone player."

"Seriously, Mom. Grandma told me stories." She shivered, despite the sun pounding down overhead.

Amara caught Leo's eye—the stories, the ghosts, the way Liana's eyes shone with something older than thirteen—and swallowed the question burning her throat.

When Liana skipped a stone across the water, it didn’t just skid—it danced, looping back toward shore like a magic trick.

"Whoa." Even Leo froze.

Liana’s grin was pure mischief. "Told you."

At a roadside diner, Amara caught Leo staring at her over his coffee, that look in his eyes—the one that said I’m trying, and failing, and loving every disaster—and her heart did that ridiculous flip it hadn’t done in years.

"Stop it," she muttered, though she was smiling.

"Stop what?" He leaned closer, the stubble on his jaw catching the morning light.

"Looking at me like I’m not about to spill syrup on my shoes."

He chuckled, low and warm. "Wouldn’t bet against it."

The bell above the door jingled. A woman in her sixties paused, her gaze locking onto Liana, who was mid-rant about the virtues of vegan donuts.

"Excuse me," the stranger said, voice trembling. "You… you look like someone I knew. A girl in Portland. Named Clara."

Liana's fork clattered onto her plate.

Amara's breath hitched.

The woman's eyes grew round. "Wait—your ring. It's… it's hers. Clara's ring. How do you have—"

Leo stood up so abruptly his chair screeched. "Ma'am, are you—"

The woman dug for a wallet, proffering a faded Polaroid: a young woman in a nurse's uniform, arms around a toddler with Leo's smile.

"Clara disappeared in '92. With my son. The police said… said they drove off a cliff. But this ring… " Her voice broke. "This ring was buried with her. I saw the photo in the paper."

Silence.

The Polaroid trembled in Amara's hand.

The toddler in the photo wasn't Leo.

It was Liana.

"That's impossible," Amara whispered, her knuckles white around the Polaroid. "Liana wasn't born in '92."

The stranger's eyes narrowed. "When were you born, dear?"

Liana's laugh was a brittle thing. "2010. Check my vaccine scars. They're millennial pink."

The woman's eyes darted to Leo, then back to Amara. "The ring. It's… it's glowing."

Amara glanced down.

The gold band pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.

Somewhere, a train whistle blew. Not from the highway. Nowhere.

And Liana's phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Tell Grandma the timeline's catching up."