Page 320 of What We Brave
"Iris, baby, not yet." I try to scoop her up but she dodges, surprisingly agile for someone who still falls over putting on pants.
"SURPRISE!"
"They're not even inside yet."
"SURPRISE!"
Reid's leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, making no effort to help. He's grinning.
"This is your fault," I tell him.
"I taught her the word. I didn't tell her to use it sixty times in a row."
"SURPRISE!"
Through the window, I see Blake's truck pull around the curve of the driveway.
Okay. This is happening. This is actually happening.
My heart is doing something medically concerning. Eight months of planning. Eight months of Blake coming home covered in sawdust and pretending he'd been "just puttering around." Eight months of me lying to my mother on video calls while my children physically vibrated with the effort of keeping a secret.
What if they hate it? What if it feels like pressure? What if my mother does that thing where she smiles and says "how lovely" in the tone that means "absolutely not"?
The truck stops. My parents are just... sitting there. Staring through the windshield.
"They see it," Reid says softly.
"Yeah."
Stop spiraling. Watch.
Blake gets out. Walks around to my mother's door. Opens it for her.
She's crying. I can see it from here—the way she's holding her face, her shoulders shaking.
Okay. Not hate. Definitely not hate.
Decades of building homes for other people in other countries. Churches and community centers and shelters that someone else would fill.
Now they have one of their own. Fifty feet from their grandchildren.
I didn't know I needed this until Blake started building it.
"Mama, why aren't they coming?" Caleb's at my hip suddenly.
"They're just looking, baby. Give them a minute."
Blake says something to them. They start walking toward the cottage.
"They're coming!" June scrambles up. "They're coming they're coming!"
"SURPRISE!" Iris shrieks, finally getting her moment.
The door opens.
My mother steps in first. Her eyes sweep the room—wood stove, kitchen, the bedroom door open to show the quilt she gave me when I graduated nursing school.
Then she sees the sign. WELCOME GRANDMA AND GRANDPAin Caleb's wobbly letters, drowning in stickers and glitter and Iris's single red handprint.
