I realized then that he hadn’t changed the greeting to push me away. He had changed it as a lifeline, hoping I would hear it. He had been calling that dead number, scared that I had finally let him go.

“I’m here,” I said.

That was all I could get out. My throat felt like it was closing up.

“I want to see you,” he said. “If you’re still there.”

“I’m still here,” I said again.

We didn’t talk about the fight. We didn’t talk about the money or the years. We just breathed into the phone, two people who had been waiting for the other to pick up. I realized then that my pride had been the wall, and he had been trying to climb it from his side the whole time.

He’s coming on Sunday. I’m making the chicken and dumplings. I don’t know if we can fix six years of silence in one afternoon. I don’t know if I’m the mother he needs me to be yet. But for the first time in a very long time, I am not waiting for a recorded voice to tell me it’s over. I am waiting for him to walk through the door.