“We made Christmas cookies for the weekend!” Portia starts telling me the icing colors and shapes while Harley holds Nylah’s hand and quietly watches on, only speaking up to correct Portia.
“We didn’t use that much food coloring. It was just a few drops.” She tries to share her side of the story but gets overridden by Portia. So typical. They’re night and day, these two.
One is overconfident, loud and smiley. The other is gentle and quiet, slow to smile and preferring to hide in the shadows than be front and center.
But she still deserves an opportunity to speak as well.
Nylah squeezes Harley’s hand. “What cookies did you make, baby?”
“I already told you.” Portia flicks her hand up.
“Yes,youdid.” Nylah crouches down to get eye level with her shy daughter. “But I’m asking Harley.”
Portia gives me an exasperated look, and I ruffle the top of her hair while Harley takes her sweet time softly explaining how she made the Christmas tree ones. Her words are slow and deliberate, and she always takes way too long to explain anything because she goes into so much detail.
Portia’s soon jittering on her feet with impatience. I cover her mouth when she goes to speak, and she frowns up at me before I finally let her go so she can blurt, “But mine are better.” Her chest puffs out with pride while I roll my eyes. “I made angels.”
“I like Christmas trees.” Harley frowns. “What’s wrong with Christmas trees?”
“Nothing. Angels are just better.”
Harley’s lips dip into a wounded frown while Nylah laughs. “Oh, Portia, stop. Angel cookies are not better than Christmas trees. They are both wonderful, and I can’t wait to taste one of each.”
Nylah smiles at our youngest daughter—by twenty-eight minutes—lightly brushing her pale cheek until a tentative smile forms on Harley’s lips. The way she looks at my wife… yeah, she truly trusts and adores her mama. It makes my heart bleed that she doesn’t have Portia’s confidence. All I can hope is that she’ll get there and won’t let this shyness and uncertainty hold her back from anything.
“Girls,” Nylah’s mom calls from the doorway. “Come and get your things.”
Portia skips away from us, and Harley trails after her. I wrap my arm around Nylah, helping her up the front steps.
“Do you need me to get your cane?”
“No, we’ll only be here for a minute. I’ll get you to help me back to the car, though.”
“Of course.” I kiss the side of her head as we enter the house, then shake Coach’s hand. The guy might be my father-in-law now, but I still call him Coach. I always will.
“How’d it go, son?”
I open my mouth to try and respond, but in the end I just shake my head. The words have turned to ash in my mouth, and I don’t want to bring up this discussion right now. We’ve got a Football Frat Christmas to get ready for, and I can’t be thinking about one-point-four million dollars and what the fuck I’m supposed to do with it.
Nylah comes to my rescue. “We’ll update you later, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe we can catch up for dinner after your special weekend.”
“Sounds good.” She smiles up at her dad, kissing his cheek and then letting her mom say hi to her belly before we trundle the kids down to our car.
It’s like herding cats, and there’s only two of them. I don’t know how we’re gonna manage three.
It used to be one per parent or one hand each when you were flying solo.
But three?
How the fuck is that supposed to work?
The girls start bickering over who gets to open the door, and as usual, Harley gives up and lets Portia win. I really need to teach that girl to fight a little harder for herself.
Nylah tuts. “We need to teach that girl that she doesn’t have to get her own way every single time.” She eyes Portia with a frown as I help her down the last few steps and walk her around to the passenger door.
Helping her up, I then check that both girls are buckled into their car seats before waving goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa.
