When the taxi dropped me off, I dragged my suitcase up the walkway and stopped cold.
My front door was damaged near the lock.
Fresh splinters lay across the porch.
For a second, I thought grief had finally followed me home in another form.
Then I pushed the door open.
And froze.
There were ten teenage boys in my house.
One was painting over the old water stain in the hallway. Another was repairing my broken bookshelf. One boy scrubbed the hardwood floor on his hands and knees. Two others carried grocery bags into the kitchen.
And from the stove came the smell of garlic, onions, and pot roast.
A tall boy with paint on his hands turned around so quickly he nearly dropped the brush.
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