The Fourth of July started like any other, with Eli racing through the house in his red-white-and-blue sneakers, his tiny flag waving proudly. But his excitement wasn’t for the food or sparklers — it was for one person: his dad, Aaron. He asked me that morning, “Do you think Dad remembered?” I smiled and nodded, even though a quiet ache stirred inside me.

By afternoon, the backyard was buzzing. Aaron lounged with his friends, beer in hand, while Eli watched the clock, tugging at his dad’s shirt every so often. Each time, Aaron promised, “We’ll light up the sky.” But as the sun dipped low, Aaron grabbed his cooler and left, saying he’d be back soon. Eli stood at the door, silently watching him go.

The evening dragged. Eli sat on the porch, sparklers lined up, eyes fixed on the street. Every passing car brought a flicker of hope that slowly dimmed. Just after nine, he curled into my lap, still holding a bent sparkler. My heart broke for him.

Then Richard, my father-in-law, sat beside me and quietly confessed his regrets — all the missed moments with his own son. “You don’t get them back,” he said. And as if summoned by those words, Aaron returned, his easy smile fading when he saw us.

He knelt beside Eli, whispered an apology, and for once, didn’t make excuses. That night, under a moonlit sky, we lit every firework. Eli laughed, holding tight to his dad.

Aaron had finally shown up. And this time, he stayed.