Page 321 of What We Brave
"SURPRISE!" All three kids scream it, finally in sync. It's a Christmas miracle.
My mother makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. Her hand covers her mouth.
"Oh," she whispers. "Oh, sweetheart."
She's looking at me. Not the kids, not the cottage. Me.
My father steps in behind her. Quiet. Taking it all in—the crown molding, the built-in shelves, the window seat. Blake's work. Every inch of it.
"Eight months," I manage. "Blake built it."
My mother turns to Blake. He's standing just inside the door, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight. Bracing. Even after seven years, part of him still expects to be told he's not enough.
She crosses to him. Takes his face in both hands.
"My sweet boy." Her voice breaks. "My sweet, stubborn boy."
Blake's jaw works. He doesn't say anything. Probably can't.
She pulls him down and kisses his forehead. Holds him there.
I watch them and I swear my heart grows three times bigger. Which is saying something considering my heart is full to bursting all the time now.
There was a time when I couldn't picture my parents accepting any of this—the three of us, our unconventional family, the life we'd built.
But my mother is holding Blake like he's her own son. Because he is, now. That's just how it works.
I gave that to him. My family is his, and I know he appreciates them more than he could ever say.
I look at my father. He's watching Blake with that assessing look—the one that used to terrify every boy I brought home. But there's no suspicion now. Just something soft.
"Good work," he says to Blake. Simple. Highest compliment David Mitchell knows how to give.
"Thank you, sir."
"David." My father's voice is gruff. "Seven years and three grandchildren. Stop calling me sir."
Blake won't. He'll try, slip up, and go right back to "sir" within a week. Some habits are load-bearing.
My father knows this. He corrects him anyway. It's become their thing.
"Habit."
"Bad habit."
Caleb tugs my father's sleeve. "Grandpa, do you like it? Papa built it. He let me help once. I handed him nails."
"Very important job." My father crouches to his level.
"I know. Mama said I was indis... indispen..."
"Indispensable," I supply.
"Yeah. That."
June shoves past her brother. "I helped too. I picked the color."
She absolutely did not, but accuracy isn't the point right now.
