"Mama, when are we going home?"

I stop, my hand on the light switch. I take a breath and look over my shoulder at my four-year-old son, such a miniature replica of his father that my heart aches. Except this time, instead of a happy ache I feel an agonizing wrench. I blink back the tears, not wanting him to see my distress, and try to find my voice.

"We might stay here for a while, cari?o," I tell him, keeping my voice steady. "I'm not sure yet." It depends on whether ...