Page 312 of What We Brave
I check my phone. Blake texted ten minutes ago:
Got them. On our way. Mary cried when she saw me. David pretended not to.
I show Laine. She smiles.
"He's come a long way."
"They all have."
Seven years since that visit in Guatemala, when everything almost fell apart.
He kept it. Every single day, he kept it.
There were hard moments. Times when I saw him calculating, saw the old patterns trying to resurface. But he always told us. Always saidI'm thinking about leavingout loud, even when his voice shook. And we always talked him back.
Now he doesn't calculate anymore. Now he's the one who plans the family vacations, who insists on sit-down dinners, who built a guest house so Laine's parents could be closer.
The man who was terrified of being too much is now the gravitational center of this family.
"Car!" Caleb shouts. "I see it!"
I look out the window. Blake's truck coming up the driveway. I can see David in the passenger seat, Mary in the back.
"Okay, everyone remember the plan?" Laine's gathering the kids. "We wait here. Papa brings Grandma and Grandpa to the little house. Then we yell surprise."
"SURPRISE!" Iris shrieks, two minutes early.
"Close enough," I say.
57
BLAKE
The door clicks shut behind me and three faces stare up.
Caleb's got his arms crossed—been awake long enough to build a grievance. June's holding her stuffed rabbit by one ear, bottom lip threatening to tremble. Iris is just standing there in her footie pajamas, diaper sagging in a way that tells me we've got a situation.
"Papa. The door was stuck."
"It wasn't stuck, buddy. It was locked."
"Why?"
Because your Daddy is currently inside your Mama and I'm standing here with a hard-on trying to be a good father. "Grown-ups need privacy sometimes."
"Why?"
"We just do."
"I want Daddy to make pancakes."
"Daddy's resting. I've got breakfast."
"But—"
"I've got breakfast." I keep my voice easy. He's five. He doesn't need an explanation. He needs consistency.
Consistency.Eight years ago, my version of consistency was wakingup screaming and drinking coffee strong enough to stop my hands from shaking. I used to crave the silence of the workshop, convinced that noise was the enemy. Now, the silence is the only thing that sets me on edge. I look down at the chaos of three kids in a hallway—the noise, the demands, the absolute lack of order—and my chest loosens.
