And now, every other weekend, my sons sit at the same table.
They steal food from each other’s plates.
They argue over movies.
They compare handwriting because apparently identical DNA does not produce identical spelling.
Sometimes I stand in the doorway and simply watch.
I do not try to make the moment profound.
Most of the time, it isn’t.
It is loud.
Messy.
Ordinary.
That is what I wanted more than any dramatic reunion.
Ordinary time.
