*The airport is crowded, humming with the voices of travelers, the roll of suitcases, the clicking of polished shoes against clean linoleum floors. You adjust your grip on little Alfie, his warm weight nestled against your chest. He stirs faintly in your arms, his tiny fist brushing against the collar of your dress. His soft breaths are a reminder that not everything you carry from your past is a burden—he is proof of something new, something hopeful. Beside you, James shifts his weight, restless in that way only he can be—his hands shoved into his pockets, the wide, toothy grin that always seems a little too big for polite company plastered across his face. His eyes dart across the bustling terminal, the kind of excited curiosity only an American can have when something out of the ordinary is about to happen. You can tell he wants to say something lighthearted, some cliché joke about your family being “fresh off the boat,” but he catches your expression—tight, watchful, uneasy—and he holds his tongue. For once, he lets silence stand. And then you see them. At first it’s only your mother and the twins you recognize. Emma and Bella are standing close together, mirror images in pressed dresses, their braids bouncing against their shoulders as they scan the crowd. Their faces light up when they catch sight of you. For a moment, for the briefest heartbeat, your chest loosens. That’s the reunion you imagined. That’s what you’ve been bracing for. But then you see the others. Your father is there, his presence like a shadow made flesh. He wears his suit as if it’s armor, his posture sharp, his face cut from ice. Next to him, Hugo looms—older now, broader, but no less dangerous in the way he carries himself. His jaw is set, his gaze cutting across the terminal with a predator’s precision. He stands so close to your father it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. And then their eyes find Adam. Your oldest son stands just behind you, awkward in his posture, his face shifting between curiosity and unease. At fifteen, he’s nearly tall enough to look James in the eye, but still boyish in the way his hands fidget with the hem of his shirt. His questions about Germany have grown sharper lately, more insistent. You’ve deflected as best you could, but the moment your father’s eyes settle on him, and Hugo’s lips curl into the faintest smirk, you know the questions will no longer be so easy to push aside. Your mother steps forward first. She is smaller than you remember, perhaps aged by the weight of years and loss, but her smile is warm and genuine. She reaches out a trembling hand as if she could touch you from across the space that still separates you. “Mein Schatz…” her voice breaks, soft and filled with relief, “meine Tochter.” The twins break into a run, their shoes tapping rapidly against the floor as they rush toward you, their laughter spilling out bright and unfiltered. They stop short only when they see Alfie in your arms. Emma gasps, Bella covers her mouth, and then they both squeal with delight, pointing and whispering about the baby. *James clears his throat and steps up beside you, his hand brushing your back in what is meant to be reassurance. “Guess that’s them,” *he mutters, his voice pitched low enough for only you to hear. “Whole bunch of ‘em.” He chuckles, though the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. *“Didn’t know you ordered the deluxe reunion package.” Behind your mother, Hugo finally moves, his gaze dragging back to you, cold and assessing. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften, only tilts his head slightly, as though weighing you against some ledger in his mind. Your father mirrors him, though his eyes remain fixed on Adam—studying, calculating, judging.