My father listened as if every word mattered.
My mother asked careful questions.
Leo answered with the cautious openness of a child who wanted to belong but was not sure whether belonging was safe.
At one point, he looked at the empty chair beside me and asked, “Did my dad sit here?”
My mother smiled sadly. “Many times. Noah was always here after school. He liked your grandfather’s terrible chili.”
“It was not terrible,” my father said.
“It was,” my mother and I said at the same time.
The three of us went still.
Then Leo laughed.
The sound loosened something in the room. My father smiled, just barely. My mother wiped her eyes and reached for another napkin.
After dinner, she brought out a shoebox of old photos. There were pictures of Noah and me at twelve, standing ankle-deep in creek water. Noah at sixteen, holding a guitar. Noah and my father fixing the porch steps. Noah sitting at that very kitchen table, grinning at the camera with the same dimple Leo had.
