I stood at the edge of it all, spatula in hand, trying to look like I belonged in the middle of this kind of joy.
Grant showed up with a pan of baked ziti and a small wooden sign that saidBe Nice or Leave.
“I thought it felt on-brand,” he said, setting it next to the lemonade.
“Accurate,” I said, smiling before I could stop myself.
He stayed close after that. Not in a hovering way. Just… nearby. Stepping in when I needed something, answering questions before I had to ask, refilling plates, redirecting a kid who almost tripped over the cooler cord.
At one point, Lily leaned in and whispered, “He likes you.”
I gave her a look. “How do you know?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because he looks at you like you have a secret he wants to know.”
That was the moment I had to excuse myself and stand by the herb garden for five full minutes pretending to examine the rosemary.
By the timethe last folding chair was stashed in the garage and the last batch of half-eaten brownies covered in foil, the backyard looked like it had just survived a small, happy hurricane.
Willa was dancing barefoot through the grass with a bottle of sparkling water and a flower crown made of dandelions. Harper was sitting at the table with a legal pad, writing down donation totals like it would keep her from feeling anything else. Lily had crashed on the porch swing with a paper plate of cookie crumbs still on her lap.
And Grant was at the sink beside me, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes like he lived here.
I passed him a casserole dish without speaking. He rinsed it and set it on a dish towel. We worked like that for a while—no words, just rhythm.
Finally, he glanced over. “You did good today.”
“I didn’t do anything special.”
“You kept everyone fed, calm, and mostly uninjured. That counts.”
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s not hard to hold things together when you’ve had a lifetime of practice.”
He looked at me patiently. “You ever think about what it would feel like not to?”
I let out a breath. “All the time. But it’s not an option.”
“Sure it is.”
“Not for me.”
He dried his hands, turned toward me. “Can I tell you something?”
I nodded.
“You don’t look tired when you let someone help.”
That landed somewhere too deep. I didn’t respond. Just turned back to the sink and grabbed another plate.
Grant didn’t push.
He just stayed beside me. Quiet and steady.
Later,after Lily was asleep and the house was dark except for the porch light and the faint glow of Willa’s phone from the couch, I sat on the edge of the bed with Iris’s old journal in my lap.
It was full of little things—lists, clippings, short notes to herself in tight cursive. Nothing profound. But it had the feeling of a life being sorted through. Like she’d needed to write it down just to believe it happened.
I didn’t write anything. Just held the pen and listened to the house breathe.
