My tears fall heavily. Motherhood and therapy changed me into a cryer. Now I cry about everything, but it’s especially worse when Dominic is the cause. He wipes them away with a tenderness that makes my heart squeeze.
“Thank you,” he says.
I swallow. “For what?”
“For letting me love you.”
I scoot up and press my lips to his, placing a slow, soft kiss. “I love you, too. Always have, always will.”
We stay intertwined, Dominic’s chin resting on the crown of my head, my arms wrapped around him like I never want to let go.
We’ve traveled all over the world, visited some of the most beautiful places on earth. But in his arms, in our home, with our kids safe and playing outside—this is paradise.
After a long beat, he stirs. “Think we have time for round two?”
Before I can reply, the creaking of the downstairs door swinging open sounds, followed by the pitter patter of threepairs of feet and the sound of my mom’s car descending our driveway. Time is up.
Dominic moves to sit, helping me along as he does. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”
Together, we get dressed and join the girls. It’s nearly dinner time and sometimes they get a little feral when they’re hungry. They take after me in that regard.
Once we get downstairs, Dominic gets started on dinner while our two younger girls run around like little hellions, working off the last of their energy. Our oldest sits at the dining table instead, likely about to draw until it’s time to eat.
“Who wants pancakes?” Dominic calls out, standing at the stove, flipping one.
Thea and Esme simultaneously shout “Me!”, but Stella, stays quiet. She’s moving past the little kid stage, slowly morphing into a dreaded preteen.
“Stella, baby girl, do you not want pancakes?” Dominic asks her, barely concealing the hurt in his voice. He’s having a hard time with her growing up.
“I guess,” she murmurs, more fixated on her drawing. My little artist.
It’s funny how different and alike the girls are. Thea is Dominic’s twin, taking after him so completely I’d doubt she has an ounce of my DNA if she wasn’t so strong willed. Esme looks more like me, but with a wise quietness that reminds me of my mother-in-law. Then there’s Stella, the perfect mix of us both, not just physically, but even her personality. She’s funny and perceptive like Dominic, but has a streak of wild impulsiveness just like I had at her age.
Stella catches me staring and looks like she might roll her eyes, but thinks better of it. For a moment she looks to her dad and then to me, a question lighting behind her green gaze.
“Is it okay if my friend comes over after dinner?”
“Of course, you know your friends are always welcomehere,” I tell her. “Do you want me to call Hazel’s mom and ask if she can come?”
I stand to grab my phone. Stella and Hazel have been best friends since kindergarten. The moment I reach my phone, Stella’s voice has me pause.
“Not Hazel. Asher,” she murmurs, focused on her drawing, her voice much smaller than I’m used to. “I told him he could come over.”
Immediately, I sense Dominic go rigid hearinghim.
Dominic spins from the stove, spatula in his hand, his eyes impossibly wide. He absentmindedly hands the spatula to Esme, leaving our seven year old to take over pancakes. Thankfully, Shane is her favorite uncle, and she knows her away around the kitchen.
Choking on a cough he says. “Stell, who’s Asher?”
She shrugs, already uninterested. Or at least pretending she’s uninterested. “He lives in one of the new houses. He was playing with us before Grandma left and made us come back inside.”
Last year, the winery sold some acreage to a developer after the soil had degraded to the point it no longer produced good crop. Since then, our quiet home has been joined by neighbors down the hill.
Dominic’s chest rises and falls as he takes several breaths. Likely to calm the panic attack he thinks he’s having.
“Sure,” he croaks. “Bring theboyover.”
I meet his stare and silently mouth, “Stop.”
