Her son’s hug was decorous, almost formal, as he held her briefly, one big arm circling her mid-back. She felt the soft brush of his mustache and beard against her cheek as he kissed her there, almost in a perfunctory way, and then she was released. He took a step back, and she looked up at him. His face was almost crimson, and she saw fine beads of sweat on his brow. She saw his eyes raise to the stairs and then he dipped to set his bags down before rising again to his full 6’4” and stood, looking up and past her for a moment, before smiling — strained, not at all his usual care-free grin — and saying, “Hi dad.”
She turned too, and there was Daniel, slightly above them both on the fourth riser, paused. His face was just as flushed as his son’s, and for a space of moments, they stood there, all three in an odd tableau. She had time enough to wonder, fleetingly, if all of this hadn’t been a rather enormous mistake. But then she steeled herself, reached inside for her strength and need and desire — as well as what she knew Daniel himself needed — and stepped forward, reaching for her husband’s hand on the polished oak banister.