Callan pushed the front door open and stepped inside the house. Almost immediately his chest loosened as though some invisible weight fell away. He inhaled deeply, knowing he was home.
He loved this house, but more than that he loved the people who lived here. And since their conversation the previous night he felt sorry that he had wasted so many years doubting their love for him.
He walked through the hallway until he reached the living room, and then he stopped at the doorway.
There they were, curled together on the big couch. His mother's head rested on his father's chest, her hair spilling over his shirt, and his father had one arm around her shoulders. The television glowed in front of them, playing some evening drama, but neither of them seemed to be paying much attention. Hunter's eyes were half on the screen, half on Delilah, like he'd rather watch her than focus on the television.
