Right there, under my pergola, is a beautiful, aged white wood swing, held up by triangular posts on each side, two metal chains hanging from the small beam above it. Nate’s swing sways in slow, gentle motions, with the help of the soft ocean breeze. I stand, holding a hand out to stop Parker when he tries to help. Moisture fills my eyes for the thousandth time since I left, but this time for a very different reason. I knew he’d come.
