It was Edmund who found them first, having noticed his son's absence and followed the direction several guests pointed him toward. He pushed through the kitchen door, still holding a crystal glass of scotch, and stopped completely still at the sight in front of him — his son wrapped securely in the arms of a maid he'd occasionally exchanged pleasant, unremarkable small talk with over the past several months.
Except the moment he looked more closely — really looked, past the plain brown hair and the unassuming uniform — something in his chest seized entirely.
The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the tile floor, the sound sharp enough that Helen looked up instinctively, her tear-filled eyes meeting his directly for the first time without either of them carefully avoiding the contact.
"Helen?" His voice came out barely audible, disbelief and dawning devastation coloring every syllable. "Is it really you?"
She said nothing at first, simply holding his gaze, twenty years of grief and searching and carefully suppressed hope passing between them in a single, unbroken look. Charlie, still held securely in her arms, glanced between the two adults with confused, tear-streaked uncertainty.
"Edmund," she finally managed, her voice breaking on his name after two decades of not being permitted to say it aloud.