Collin looked down at my mother, his expression torn between disbelief and awe. “I always thought she gave me up willingly,” he said quietly. “My father told me she didn’t want to raise me.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “That wasn’t true. She never stopped loving you. Alzheimer’s took so much from her, but your name—your memory—stayed.”

He nodded slowly, his voice breaking. “I used to dream she’d walk through that door someday.”

Claire, fragile but alert for the briefest moment, reached out and touched his hand. “My Collin… the sun was so warm that day…”

He clasped her hand gently, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Mom,” he whispered, “I’m here.”

We sat there—three lives once scattered, now slowly being stitched back together in the scent of bread and memory.

Collin brought out a cake he’d made earlier that morning. “Chocolate,” he said, placing it before her. “Your favorite.”

Claire smiled faintly. “Sunlight… and chocolate cake…”

And for a moment, it felt like time bent to give us one perfect, forgotten afternoon.