Page 322 of What We Brave
"Beautiful color," my father says gravely, like he's evaluating a doctoral thesis.
Iris toddles over and shoves her hand in his face. "Grandpa. Grandpa. Grandpa."
"Hello, little one."
"SURPRISE!"
He laughs. Full and warm, the sound I remember from childhood. Haven't heard it enough lately.
"Surprise indeed," he says.
My mother's exploring now—opening cabinets, running her hands over the counters. Reid catches my eye.
"Walk-in shower," he tells her. "Grab bars already installed. Blake insisted."
"For when we're old and decrepit?" She's trying for arch but her voice wobbles.
"For when you're here long enough to need them."
She goes still. Turns to face the three of us—me, Reid, Blake. Lined up like we rehearsed this.
"How long," she says carefully, "were you thinking?"
This is it. The thing I've been building toward since I stopped running. Since I decided to actually stay somewhere for once.
"As long as you want." I take her hands. "Not two weeks at Christmas. For real. School plays and soccer games and ordinary Tuesdays."
"Lainey—"
"Years of giving to everyone else, Mom. Let us give something back."
She looks at my father. That silent conversation they've been having longer than I've been alive.
He nods.
She turns back to me, tears streaming, not even trying to hide them anymore.
"Okay," she says. "Okay, sweetheart. We're staying."
The kids don't understand what's happening, but they understand the energy. June cheers. Caleb joins in. Iris contributes another "SURPRISE!" because it's her only party trick.
My mother pulls me close. She smells like the same lavender hand cream she's used my entire life—the one she used to rub on my sunburns in whatever country we were in that month. My father wraps around both of us, his cardigan scratchy against my cheek. Reid's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady. Blake is solid against my side, close enough that I can feel his breathing slow as the tension finally leaves him.
Everyone I love is touching me right now.
It should feel claustrophobic. It feels like coming home.
The old me would have been out the door by now. Too much emotion. Too many expectations. Too many people depending on me to stay.
But I'm not going anywhere. And the strangest part is, I don't want to.
Christmas Eve dinner is chaos.
I do a quick headcount of active disasters: Iris has mashed potato in her hair. June is narrating Caleb's checkers game at a volume that suggests she thinks my father is deaf. Reid and my mother are having a passive-aggressive standoff over whether the potatoes need more butter (they do, Mom is wrong, Reid will never say so). Blake has Iris on his hip, feeding her bits of roll one-handed while he stirs gravy with the other, which shouldn't be physically possible but here we are.
She's got butter on her face and potato in her hair. She's never been happier.
I lean against the doorway and just... watch.
