[Scene: Ms. Hendrix’s Office, After Thomas Leaves]

  Ms. Hendrix picks up the contact card Thomas left with her. She dials the number. After a couple rings, a warm female voice answers.

  Ruth (on the line): Hello, this is Ruth Mendelson.

  Ms. Hendrix: Hi, Ruth. This is Ms. Hendrix—I work with Thomas at the school. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve arranged for the transport to take him directly home today.

  Ruth: Oh, of course. Is everything alright?

  Ms. Hendrix: He’s doing well, honestly. The transition would be a lot for anyone, but I’m genuinely impressed with how he’s handling it. Still… there was something he said today that made me think he could use a little extra reassurance. If he’ll let you, a hug from me would mean a lot.

  Ruth (gentle chuckle): I think I understand exactly what you mean. And if he’s open to it, I’ll give him a big one—from both of us. He’s already been such a help around the house. We’re really glad he’s with us.

  Ms. Hendrix: I appreciate that. It makes a difference, knowing he has a soft place to land.

  Ruth: Thank you for the call—and for looking out for him.

  Ms. Hendrix: Always. Take care, Ruth.

  The transport van pulls away from the curb just as Thomas steps onto the porch. He’s moving slower than usual, shoulders a little rounded, scriptures and journal tucked under one arm like they’re the only things anchoring him today.

  The front door opens before he can reach for the handle.

  Ruth is standing there in her flour-dusted apron (she must have been rolling out dough for tomorrow’s challah). She doesn’t say anything at first. She just opens her arms.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Thomas freezes for half a second, the way he always does when someone offers physical affection he didn’t earn. Then something in him gives. He steps forward and lets her pull him in.

  Ruth wraps him up tight, one hand on the back of his head, the other firm across his shoulder blades. She smells like yeast and cinnamon and the faint lavender soap she uses. It’s the kind of hug that doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t rush.

  Thomas’s eyes squeeze shut. His forehead drops to her shoulder. He doesn’t cry (not quite), but his breath hitches once, hard, like something inside just shifted a fraction of an inch into place.

  Ruth speaks softly against his hair.

  Ruth: Rough day, sweetheart?

  Thomas (muffled against her shoulder): Not rough. Just… a lot.

  Ruth: Ms. Hendrix called. She said to give you this one from her too.

  She tightens the hug for another three heartbeats, then loosens just enough to look at him. Her hands stay on his upper arms, thumbs rubbing small, absent circles.

  Ruth: You’re doing better than anyone has any right to expect, Thomas. But you don’t have to do it perfectly. Or alone.

  Thomas swallows, nods once. His voice comes out smaller than he probably wants.

  Thomas: Thank you. For… this.

  Ruth: Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up. And after we eat, if you feel like talking, we’ll talk. If you feel like sitting quietly and letting me feed you too much brisket, we’ll do that instead. Your choice.

  She reaches up and smooths an errant curl off his forehead (a mother’s gesture so automatic she probably doesn’t even realize she did it).

  Thomas manages the ghost of a smile.

  Thomas: I could probably handle the brisket option.

  Ruth: Good. Because I made a lot, and Sholomoh’s on a diet he refuses to admit to.

  She steps aside to let him in, but as he passes she adds, almost too casually:

  Ruth: Also, there’s a new container of chocolate-chocolate-chip ice cream in the freezer. The good stuff. Just in case the brisket isn’t enough emotional support.

  Thomas huffs something that’s almost a laugh, toes off his shoes, and heads toward the hallway. He pauses at the foot of the stairs, looks back.

  Thomas (quiet): I’m really glad I’m here.

  Ruth’s eyes go soft.

  Ruth: We’re really glad you’re here too.

  Then she turns back toward the kitchen, already calling over her shoulder in that comfortable, bustling way:

  Ruth: Five minutes, mister! If you’re late, I’m sending Sholomoh up there with a wet towel like we used to do to the boys!

  Thomas’s shoulders shake with a real laugh this time as he takes the stairs two at a time.

  From the kitchen, the smell of onions and garlic and home wraps around the house like another hug—one that’s going to be waiting every single night he comes through that door.