Anna's presence is still everywhere, in the light that fallsthrough the windows and the flowers that bloom in the garden and the way Will still talks to her every day.
We don't worry about that anymore. We know now that he's okay after he let himself be checked out and tested.
The decorations are absurd. Streamers hang from every available surface, balloons cluster in corners like they're planning something, and there's a banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY NOVA in letters so large they could probably be seen from space. Dad and Grandpa have clearly lost their minds, and I love them for it.
"This might be excessive," I observe, standing in the doorway.
Will glances up from where he's tying ribbons to a chair. At sixty-one, he's still handsome and strong, still younger than Brad Pitt, which is a detail he insists on. The grief that used to sit so heavy on his shoulders has softened over the years, becoming gentler, making room for the joy that floods through this house every single day.
"There's no such thing as excessive for my granddaughter," he informs me with dignity. "She's one. This is important."
"She won't remember it."
"I'll remember it." He surveys his work with satisfaction. "That's what matters."
I can't argue with that. Soon this house will be bubbling with noise as everyone gathers.
Poppy still insists on calling us the Holy Trinity, and Erin still bears the title Anal Girl with resigned grace, and our children are growing up surrounded by more love than they know what to do with.
Poppy and Ramsey have three kids now, two boys and agirl. Little Clara is barely a year older than Nova, and watching them together makes me so happy.
Rome and Erin have three as well, one boy and two girls, and their youngest, Mila, is also just a year older than Nova. My children will grow up with cousins and friends and a family so big and loud that they'll never know what loneliness feels like.
That's all I ever wanted for them. That's all I ever wanted for myself.
After a much-needed shower after work, I hear voices drifting from the workshop, the low murmur of conversation, and I follow the sound across the yard.
The workshop door is open, afternoon light spilling across the worn wooden floor. I stop in the doorway and take them all in.
Will is at his workbench, the same one he's had for forty years, showing off the small toys he carved for the kids. His hands move with the ease of long practice, turning the little wooden shapes so they catch the light.
Wick is perched on his father's lap, watching with wide eyes, and Nova is nestled against Callahan's chest, her chubby fingers wrapped around a carved rabbit that she has already stuffed entirely into her mouth.
She's drooling on it. She's drooling on everything these days. Will and Callahan share a look over her head, pure love passing between them.
My children are my everything. Two easy pregnancies and two easy births, thank God. Both of them inherited their father's sea-green eyes and my darker hair, and both of them are so beautiful it makes me ache.
Then I find my husband, and my breath catches. IfCallahan was drop-dead gorgeous at thirty, he's striking at forty. The years have been absurdly kind to him, adding depth to his features and silver to his temples and a gravity to his presence that makes everyone turn when he walks into a room.
He's especially hard to resist with a baby in his arms. One child is bad enough. Two is a full-scale emergency for my poor system.
Wick sees me first. His face goes bright and he scrambles down from his father's lap and runs to me, his sneakers slapping against the wooden floor.
"Mommy, see what Grandpa made me!"
He's holding up a car, one of dozens his grandfather has carved for him over the years. His eyes are big and beautiful, fringed with lashes that are completely wasted on a six-year-old boy. He's missing one of his lower baby teeth, and the gap in his smile is the sweetest thing I've ever seen.
"Wow," I say, crouching down to examine it with appropriate gravity. "This is the coolest car I have ever seen."
He beams at me, his whole face lighting up. "Nova is eating hers again.”
I glance over at my daughter, who is indeed chomping down on her wooden rabbit with single-minded determination, drool running down her chin and onto Callahan's shirt. He doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Your sister appreciates art in her own way," I tell Wick solemnly.
Callahan stands, lifting Nova high above his head, and she squeals with delight. A long line of drool narrowly misses his face as he brings her back down, and he doesn't even flinch. He never does. When Callahan loves you, heloves you with everything he has. Everything you are, mess and chaos and all.
He crosses to me and settles Nova into my arms, and I bury my face in her chubby neck and breathe her in. She smells like baby shampoo and drool and the particular sweetness that belongs only to her. My daughter. My miracle. My heart walking around outside my body.
