Page 101 of Love What's Left
Mom wraps Sydney in a hug, then rocks her in her arms, before stepping back and shooting me a mock-scolding glance, her light blue eyes smiling. “Youtoldher. She’s not even a little surprised.”
The moment I mentioned we were coming back to New York, my sister and mother went into celebration mode. The fact that our return also coincided with the weekend of Sydney’s thirtieth birthday was, according to Bronwyn, “serendipity.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t like surprises, anymore. This is so kind. But I’d rather not open a door and throw a punch into somebody’s face from being startled,” Sydney says quietly enough for only Mom and me to hear.
Mom’s eyebrows lift, then settle into a warm expression of contrition. “No, honey. I’m sorry I didn’t think of that.”
“I do love the party, though.” Sydney’s smile glows.
Mom places her hand on Sydney’s cheek, her eyes growing teary. “Good. We’re all so happy you’re here with us.”
Dad joins us and gives Sydney a gentle hug, then slaps my back in a slightly rougher version. “Looking good. Both of you. Mom and I made the food, ourselves, with our own two hands. No caterers. There’s sealed apple juice, flavored seltzer, and still water in the fridge. Cornhole is set up on the back lawn. We play at three. Gird your loins.”
When the two of them move on to herd the crowd toward the kitchens and patio, Sydney bumps my shoulder with hers. “I can’t get over how down-to-earth your parents are.”
My brows come together slightly. “We weren’t really. Not the way you’re thinking. Before Dad met Mom, he was raising a couple Little Lord Fauntleroys. Mom adopted us when they got married, and we all met in the middle, afterward. I was six or seven the first time I tasted a hamburger.”
Our ten-year-old niece, Phee, carrying a small, hand-wrapped gift, hops her way forward, careful to land only on the black tiles, not the white. When she reaches us, she looks at Sydney, her brow furrowing. Then she turns to me and lifts her arms for a hug.
I bend down and give her a squeeze, her curly dark-blonde hair soft against my cheek, then I release her. “Are the white tiles lava today, Phee Bee?”
“Only Dad still calls me a bee. I don’t buzz. The white tiles aren’t lava. I’m skipping them because this room is a big checkerboard,” she says.
“Do you prefer to be called Phee or Ophelia?” Sydney has remembered only small bits and pieces from her life after college, but Bronwyn and Dean agreed with her when she suggested not telling the kids that she didn’t remember them. Sydney has gotten to know them through our video calls well enough for the kids not to notice.
Our nieceturns her attention to her aunt. “I like Phee for home.” She hesitates. “Can I hug you, now?”
Sydney opens her arms. “I’d love it.”
Phee throws her arms around Sydney’s middle. Sydney squeezes her back, and when Phee doesn’t let go, Sydney takes her cue and continues to hold the hug.
“I was scared,” Phee says against Sydney’s chest, a small sob in her voice. “When I saw you in the chair at your house before you went on vacation. When I hugged you, and you didn’t hug back.”
A fist lodges in my throat.Me too, kiddo.
I place a hand on her head.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I got hurt. But now I’m better,” Sydney says.
“Maybe in a little while, we could go outside and kick around a soccer ball?” Phee asks.
“Absolutely. I hear you’re a goalie for your team now,” Sydney says, still holding on.
Phee nods.
“I brought a ball.” Sydney and Phee speak at the same time, then both laugh.
“It’s on,” Sydney says.
And, still, they don’t let go.
Finally, Phee releases her, so Sydney relaxes her arms.
Phee steps backward. “Hold on one second.”
She passes Sydney the small, squishily-wrapped gift. “I made this. Momwyn said gifts go on the table for later, but I wanted to see you open it.”
Sydney accepts the package. “Well, now you’ve got me too excited to wait.”
