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“Tarzan, do you have an extra shirt and shorts Mimmo can wear? I think everyone needs a bath.” I chuckle. This will be one less thing for their mother to contend with when she gets home. “Can you help clean up Turtle when you’re done with yours, Myla? I want to clean up this kitchen so your mother doesn’t see what a mess we made.”
She nods, and the flour covered sprites all make a mad dash for the stairs.
Suddenly, it hits me that I never put any medicine in the little one’s eye. “I’ll come up after I get these in the oven and give Turtle his medicine, okay?”
Myla gives me a peculiar smile. This little butterfly of a girl could steal my heart as quickly as her mother if I’m not careful.
Baths are complete and the pizzas have cooled, and the five of us dance around the kitchen island eating our pizza as ‘Waka Waka’ by Shakira plays in the background. Truitt dances in my arms, taking small bites of my pizza as the boys sing with food in their mouths.
“What are you wearing, Tarzan?” I laugh. I hadn’t paid that much attention before, but he looks as if he’s dancing in a dress.
“I sleep in this.”
“How do you not get lost in that? It’s so big. What size do you wear, anyway?” I tease.
“It was my dad’s, silly.”
I observe Myla’s face fall a little at this revelation and quickly decide to get us back to safer territory.
“Well, Mimmo normally sleeps in Superman underwear. But I guess Tarzan’s clothes will do tonight, yes?”
“I’m not Tarzan.”
“Oh, I think you are.” I joke as Jillian walks into the room, smiling wide.
“Mama!” Caleb yells and rushes for her, making me wish I could do the same.
Her eyes scan the room, the pizza covered countertop, and her kids dancing in pajamas. She’s probably thinking she’d lost her mind letting me watch them. Until I see the moment where her eyes glisten with tears and I know.
“Thank you,” she mouths to me.
And damn if I don’t have to fight mine watering up, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jillian
Layingmy head down onto my pillow, I should be exhausted. It’s been a full day. It must’ve been for the kids as well. I’ve never seen them go down for bed so easily.
But instead, I’m wide awake, almost invigorated. To walk into my house, seeing it really lived in, my kids happier than I’ve ever seen them… it was beyond my wildest dreams.
Even when Dillon was alive, an ever-present cloud of fear lingered. The fear I couldn’t give them all they needed while he was away. The fear he’d decide he didn’t enjoy time with us as much as his time away. The fear he wouldn’t come back.
Until he couldn’t.
Then the fears were replaced with nightmares. Not just of all we’d lost, but how we’d lost them. How sad is it when you don’t even hope for happy anymore? I’ve merely settled for getting through each day unscathed.
I hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten until recently. I’d found myself feeling agitated when around happy couples. If I saw someone in a coffee shop laugh, it would cause me to feelI’d put on a wool sweater without a protective layer of clothing beneath it. What kind of bitter existence was I living that joy caused me such irritation?
I’m proud of how far the four of us have come. But this recent awakening has caused me to ponder whether I should try therapy once more. Parents model their behavior to their children. I want more for my kids than survival and bitterness. Not to mention, juggling work and the unique needs of my three littles have made it easy to put off dealing withmypersonal struggles.
My relationship with my father, or lack thereof, has admittedly done a number on my self-esteem. Add to it what losing Dillon did to us, and my trust in other people has taken quite the hit.
My thoughts float to Luca sitting on the bench in front of the ER yesterday, holding Truitt like they belonged together. Luca at daycare sweet talking the attendants. Luca in my kitchen, bringing immeasurable joy to my home. This stranger I still know so little about, covered in artful tattoos, that I welcomed into my children’s lives without hesitation.
Shaking my head, I reach for my phone.
9:40 p.m. | Jillian
