Page 29 of Forever We Embrace: The Later Years
Maceo looks at my plate, then at me. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
I take a bite while three children and four adults watch me with varying levels of concern.
Samuel leans across the table first. “Is it bad?”
I chew, swallow, and look at Maceo. “It’s breakfast.”
Luca laughs so suddenly he has to set his cup down, and Blake’s hand lands on his thigh beneath the table as he leans into him. Even Luther smiles while he searches under Rosalie’s chair for the shoe she claims has disappeared.
“It was on your foot five minutes ago,” Luther says, reaching beneath the table.
Rosalie peers down beside him. “Maybe it got bored.”
“Shoes don't get bored.”
“Mine does.”
Maceo passes the fruit bowl toward James while Samuel begins talking over him about whether the baby spoon can be used for jam. Luca answers one child while Blake cuts another piece of toast and slides half onto Luca’s plate. Luther finally finds the missing shoe beneath Samuel’s chair, where neither child admits putting it.
The kitchen stays loud, crowded, and full of people bumping shoulders, stealing bites, passing plates, and kissing whenever someone comes within reach.
Nobody asks me where anything is. Nobody waits for me to take over.
I take another bite and let the morning keep moving without me directing it.
That evening, I stop halfway through arranging the children’s clothes for the next morning.
Luther is already guiding Samuel toward the bathroom while Rosalie argues that brushing her hair should count as brushing her teeth. James has his pajama shirt on backward and doesn't appear concerned.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, pausing in the doorway with the folded clothes still balanced against my chest.
Luther glances at what I’m holding, then back toward the bathroom, where Rosalie’s already trying to slip past him with a dry toothbrush in one hand. “Put those down, Gray. I’ve got them.”
I look toward James, who’s standing beside his bed with one arm through the wrong side of his pajama shirt. The collar sits crooked against his neck, and the seams run down the front. “James’s shirt is backward.”
James looks down at himself, pinches the hem, and grins. “I like it.”
Luther reaches over to tug the fabric free where it’s bunched against James’s stomach, but he doesn’t make him change it. Before I can decide whether to argue, Rosalie darts toward the bedroom. Luther catches her around the waist and lifts her beneath one arm while she squeals and kicks once in protest.
“I brushed,” she insists, holding the untouched toothbrush out in front of her.
Luther looks at the clean bristles, then presses a kiss to the side of her head. “Okay, baby. You held it. Now let’s put some toothpaste on it and actually brush.”
Samuel laughs from the bathroom doorway and calls for her to hurry. Rosalie keeps protesting that holding it should count for something, but Luther carries her back toward the sink while Samuel squeezes past them and nearly trips over the bath mat.
James climbs onto his bed with the backward shirt still on and reaches for the book waiting on his pillow. He settles against the headboard and starts sounding out the first line without asking for help.
From the hallway, I hear the faucet running, Rosalie objecting to the amount of toothpaste Luther’s used, and Samuel announcing that he can spit farther than anybody else in the house. Luther tells him, gently but firmly, that they’re not testing that theory tonight. A second later, Rosalie starts laughing hard enough that I hear Luther tell her to keep the toothbrush in her mouth.
By the time the bathroom light clicks off, all three children are in bed. Luther comes out of the hallway with Rosalie’s pink toothbrush tucked into his back pocket and Samuel’s sock clinging to the shoulder of his shirt.
“How did that get there?” I ask from the chair beside James’s bed, where I finally set the folded clothes down.
He reaches up, finds the sock, and stares at it for a second before handing it to me. “I stopped asking questions about ten minutes ago.”
I laugh and catch the front of his shirt, pulling him close enough to kiss before the sock can fall between us. His hand settles at my hip automatically, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders when my mouth lingers against his.
“You did well,” I murmur.
