"Mail came for you." Sam gestures to the pile on the counter without looking up from the journal open in front of her.

Jack drops the dog's leash by the door. She hates it when he doesn't hang it up, but after living together for the last five years he does it just because he knows it bugs her. He scoops up the stack of envelopes and shuffles through them. She pays all the bills online now but he's still old school and prefers his cell bill to be on paper. Postcard from Daniel – somewhere in Southeast Asia this month, Vala still keeping him on his toes. Flyer from Office Depot. Plain white envelope, hand addressed to him.

He pulls the envelope out and tosses the rest back onto the counter and he's surprised that she didn't recognize the handwriting. There's junk mail addressed to her in the pile so she probably didn't make it past the paper wrapper on the new journal she's currently buried in, peering down her nose through the reading glasses he knows she hates.

He slits the envelope and isn't surprised to find it almost empty. As promised, his counterpart had not contacted him once since he'd dropped him off at school all those years ago. He'd almost forgotten about his existence.

The photograph is one of those wallet sizes, the kind proud parent keep of their offspring in little plastic sleeves to dig out of wallets and purses at the very mention of their children. He sees his handwriting in the back of the photo and holds it at arms length to read.

'Here's to not screwing up second chances' followed by a date and weight - 9lbs, 9oz.

He flips the photo over and figures the kid on the other side is maybe six, seven months old at most. Dark eyes, dark hair, but the smile is all Carter.

"Anything exciting?" she asks and he's tempted to show her the picture. The dog has his huge head in her lap, hoping for a crust from the toast she is munching and she's absently stroking behind his ear, still deep in her new journal.

"Just junk mail and a postcard from Daniel," he answers instead because he knows how much she's sacrificed for the program and it's too late to turn back now and ask 'what if'. They've all sacrificed but he can live with it because he knows that somewhere out there they're getting that second chance thanks to the Aasgard.

She makes some non-committal sound about the post-card and he knows she's not paying attention to him now anyhow. He takes his wallet out from his back pocket and slips the photograph inside the plastic sleeve, between the dog-eared picture of Charlie at Little League and the one of SG-1 off world on some planet together. 'To second chances,' he thinks and steals the last bite of her toast.