Lena walked between them.
At the parking lot, they separated.
Maya was staying at Isaiah's that night.
She hugged Thomas.
"Bye, Dad."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
Then she walked toward Isaiah's truck.
"Come on, Dad."
Isaiah smiled.
No qualifier.
No "Daddy Isaiah."
Just Dad.
He looked at Thomas.
Years earlier, those words would have felt like a competition.
Now they did not.
Thomas nodded.
Isaiah nodded back.
Then Isaiah followed his daughter.
On the drive home, Maya asked, "Do you ever wish you came back sooner?"
Isaiah gripped the steering wheel.
"Every day."
"If you did, Mom wouldn't have married Thomas."
"Probably not."
"And I'd only have one dad."
"Probably."
Maya considered this.
"That would be weird."
Isaiah laughed.
"To you."
"Yeah."
She looked out the window.
"I'm glad you came back when you did."
Isaiah glanced at her.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because you still came back."
Simple.
Again.
Children always found the simplest truth.
He had spent years measuring everything he lost.
Four birthdays.
First bicycle ride.
School plays.
A marriage.
A home that belonged partly to someone else.
He would always grieve those things.
But Maya measured something different.
He came back.
That was enough for her.
Maybe it could eventually be enough for him.
When they reached the house, Maya ran inside.
Isaiah remained by the truck for a moment.
The neighborhood was quiet.
Lights glowed through windows.
Somewhere a dog barked.
A television played behind a neighbor's curtains.
Ordinary life.
He looked at his own kitchen window.
His curtains were gray.
He had chosen them himself.
Inside, Maya opened the refrigerator.
"Dad!"
"What?"
"We're out of milk!"
"We have water."
"I'm not eating cereal with water!"
"You've survived worse."
"No, I haven't!"
Isaiah laughed.
He walked toward the house.