I left Maggie and returned to my family, drawn to them by a need I did not quite understand. Though I had been steadily disengaging myself from them, and though I had seen Connie’s future and not begrudged her new life, I found that I now needed to know, with absolute certainty, that my sons did not harbor some dark spot deep within them that might one day bloom into the malignant core I had sensed deep inside many of the inmates I’d passed.

I was beginning to fear that we were all were born with that potential darkness but that, thankfully, it withered and died in the light of the love we received from others. I thought, too, that perhaps a speck of that darkness had survived inside me, had been fed by bitterness, alcohol, and self-loathing until it had gained hold in my final decade, feeding itself on my anger and disappointments, growing ever larger until the day, mercifully, that I died.

Had I loved my boys enough to vanquish that nascent spitefulness forever? No, I had not. But maybe Connie had.

I waited just inside the kitchen, listening to the sounds of conversation and laughter in the dining room next door, admiring the feeling of safety that Connie’s kitchen exuded. Dinner was almost over and their talk was relaxed and meandering, fueled by the presence of the man I had seen with Connie earlier. He asked my boys simple questions, then gave them room to answer, not interrupting, or giving advice, simply listening and asking more questions when they were done. Under this gentle probing, my boys opened up and I learned more about them than I had ever known when I was alive. Sean did well in math, not so well in vocabulary, and wanted to be a shortstop rather than an outfielder. Michael was going to be in the school play, in a leading role yet, and was not the least bit embarrassed by it.

I felt a deep gratitude toward this man who had stepped forward to love my sons and a relief that they could turn to him for guidance.

Dinner over, the boys jostled through the kitchen door together, all elbows and shoving, each trying to be the first to claim dessert. Sean, my youngest, won the battle, his smaller size giving him the advantage as he ducked around a corner while holding his larger brother at bay. He reached the refrigerator first and used the door of it to block Michael from gaining access. The largest bowl of pudding firmly in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other, he cast his brother a triumphant smirk—and I was filled with a sudden, overwhelming love for these still unformed young men. They were so innocent in their vendettas. I prayed the world would be kind to them both.

“So, are you banging that Courtney chick yet?” Sean asked Michael, failing miserably in his attempt to sound older.

“Shut up,” Michael said immediately, pushing his brother aside as he reached for his share of dessert. “Say something like that about her again and I’ll shove your face in the toilet.”

Sean froze, surprised by his brother’s fury. Michael looked just as shocked.

“Sorry, man,” Sean mumbled.

And then I think it hit us all simultaneously—Michael truly liked the girl Sean was teasing him about. I could tell he was both confused and pleased at this realization, and that Sean was envious, but respectful, of his brother.

As for me, I felt elation: my oldest son was approaching love, and approaching it willingly. I would not need to worry about him. Nor about my youngest, either. He loved his brother and I saw it plainly then. That I had shared in this moment elated me. I was connected to my sons in a way I had never achieved while alive. And yet, even as I felt the love that bound us, I knew I had to let them go. They were going to be all right. It was time to let them all go.

“What did I miss? Besides the whipped cream?” Connie’s voice cut through the silence and the boys looked up, faces wreathed in smiles. She saw their delight. “What’s going on?” she asked.

They were silent.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “perhaps you can answer this: would either one of you like to go out to a movie? Cal says it’s on him.”

They stared at one another, unsure of how to handle this sudden turn of events: a movie, on a school night, in the middle of winter?

“With popcorn and Cokes?” asked Sean suspiciously.

“And Raisinets?” his brother added. Michael always pushed his luck.

“Why not?” Connie said. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

The boys glanced at one another and the signal was given. They slurped down their pudding like starving wolves, racing to be the first to finish, horrifying their mother but amusing the man named Cal, who had joined them in the kitchen to be a part of their laughter.

“I guess they said yes,” he said good-naturedly as the boys tossed their empty bowls into the sink then raced to the back porch for their jackets.

“I guess so,” Connie agreed. “I’ll be right out.” She gave him a long kiss before he followed my boys out the door, though she’d see him in less than a minute.

I was happy for her.

But Connie lingered behind in the suddenly quiet kitchen, her eyes focused on a small photo taped to the refrigerator door. It was a snapshot of me, taken long ago, when my hair was full and my face still unlined. As I stared at the man I used to be, I noticed the calendar beneath my photo, with the day’s date circled. I realized why Connie needed to lose herself in a movie on this day of all days: today would have been our twenty-second wedding anniversary.

I was not completely forgotten after all.