“Did you see that, Uncle Holden?”
“I saw it.” Holden held up his hand for a high-five. “You’re hustling me.”
I watched from across the room. This was Holden with the kids—the same way he’d always been. Warm. Patient. Present. Not performing for anyone, not trying to prove anything. Just being the uncle they adored.
Almost six months since Danny Curtis died in his arms.
The thought arrived without warning, the way thoughts about Danny always did — not as information but as weight. The six-month mark was coming. I’d been aware of it the way you’re aware of weather approaching from the west — not looking at it directly, but feeling the pressure change.
My hands were tight around nothing now that Betty had taken the presents.
Knox ran off to the food table, but Luca stayed. He tilted his head, studying Holden with that perceptive look. “Are you sad? You look sad.”
I expected deflection. Expected him to brush off the question with a joke or a redirect. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the pool table and met Luca’s eyes honestly.
“A little bit,” he admitted. “But seeing you guys helps.”
Luca nodded solemnly, as if this was the most reasonable answer in the world. “That’s okay. Mama says it’s good to feel sad sometimes. It means you care about stuff.”
“Your mama’s pretty smart.”
“I know.” Luca grinned, suddenly looking his age again. “Can we do cake now?”
The moment passed. Holden herded the boys toward Handful, and I watched him go.
He wasn’t using the kids. Wasn’t performing for my benefit. Didn’t even seem to know I was here.
He genuinely cared about those boys. The same way he’d cared about Danny.
The same way he’d cared about me.
I found Betty at the drink station, pouring lemonade into paper cups. Gunner, the black Lab the boys had gotten for their last birthday, was stationed at her feet with his tail going at a steady thump, waiting for something to fall.
“He’s good with them,” Betty said, not looking up from the lemonade. She didn’t need to specify who.
“He always has been.”
“Mm.” She finished pouring, lined the cups up neatly, and finally turned to face me. Her eyes were sharp in a way that reminded me she’d been a nurse for thirty years—she read people the way I read people, just from a different training. “And you’re good at watching from a distance.”
The observation landed with more precision than I was prepared for. “I’m here for the boys.”
“I know.” She said it without judgment. “I spent years watching Lilac protect herself the same way. Clinical distance. Functioning perfectly. Keeping the world at arm’s length because the alternative was feeling something she wasn’t sure she’d survive.”
I didn’t have a response to that. Betty didn’t seem to expect one.
“She came back to life eventually,” Betty said. “Not because anyone convinced her to. Because she felt safe enough to do so.” She picked up a cup of lemonade and pressed it into my hand. “Drink that. You look like you haven’t eaten today.”
Betty moved off to intercept Handful, who appeared to be constructing something structurally unsound out of paper plates for the boys’ entertainment. I stood with my lemonade and watched her go.
Across the room, Colt was trying to light the candles on the cake while simultaneously preventing Lilac from standing up. She swatted his hand away. He lit another candle. She stood up anyway.
“Lilac —”
“If you tell me to sit down one more time, I will put this cake somewhere you will not enjoy.”
Betty, passing behind them, said “She means it” without breaking stride.
I laughed.
