He caught my eye, then kissed my temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t flinch.
I leaned in.
Later, he offered to take Lily to the bookstore so I could have an hour to myself.
I nodded, throat thick. “Thank you,” I said.
He kissed my knuckles. “Go do nothing.”
And I did.
For exactly forty-six minutes, I sat on the porch swing with a glass of iced tea, barefoot, legs tucked under me, listening to the wind in the trees and the hum of this life I was slowly starting to believe I could claim.
The house was stillwhen they got back.
Grant carried Lily in, her arms looped around his neck, half-asleep and completely content. She stirred just enough to mumble something about jellybeans and chapter books, then went boneless against his chest.
He looked at me over her shoulder and smiled, soft and sure. “I’ll take her upstairs.”
I nodded, heart a little too full to speak.
While he tucked her in, I wandered into the dining room and saw it on the table, something Lily must’ve made at the bookstore while he helped her pick out paperbacks and snacks.
It was a drawing. Crayon and glitter. Messy, bright, alive.
A house with a purple roof.
A tree with hearts in the branches.
Three figures.
Labeled carefully in shaky, eight-year-old handwriting:
Me. Mama. Grant.
Underneath, in smaller letters:
Our family tree. The new kind.
I sat down hard. The kind of sitting that comes after a shift. After a knowing.
I traced the lines with my finger. The way she’d drawn me in a dress with stars on it. The way Grant’s hand reached toward mine, not holding it, just… there.
There.
That was the word.
Not perfect. Not rescued. Not fixed.
There.
Present.
Real.
I found Grant in the hallway just as he was coming down the stairs.
