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The table is alive with chatter, the clink of cutlery against china blending with the low thrum of laughter, and for once, I don’t feel like an outsider looking in.

I’m part of this.

Elbows brush. Shoulders bump. Fletch’s thigh is warm against mine beneath the table, a quiet constant I’m almost afraid to acknowledge. Because if I do, if I lean in too far or breathe too deep, I might forget that we’re still figuring out how to exist in this strange new rhythm where I’m no longer just the girl in the coma—but the girl who came back to him.

Reese passes the bread to her dad. Thorin’s pouring more wine. Benji’s recounting something absurd from a hotel room in London involving a flooded shower and too many pastries. And me? I’m soaking it all in, like I’m afraid if I blink too long it might dissolve into a dream.

I smile at something Carson says and press my fork into a piece of roast potato that’s crispy on the outside and buttery soft in the middle. I’m halfway to taking a bite when my dad pushes back his chair and clears his throat. The room quiets just enough to feel it. That subtle shift in the air, like everyone knows something’s coming.

He disappears into the living room and returns a moment later with a white and navy gift bag.

“For the boys,” he says, setting it down in front of me. “I know they’re not home yet. But they will be.”

I blink, hard.

Fletch stills beside me, hand tightening on the edge of his plate.

My fingers tremble as I reach inside and lift out two tiny onesies. Navy with red accents. The unmistakable New England Patriots logo front and center.

I burst into tears.

Like—actual, undignified, nose-prickling, eye-stinging, chest-heaving sobs.

The whole room stills again, but not in the uncomfortable way. No one flinches. No one makes it weird. I think they’ve all just come to expect that I cry at the drop of a hat now—over coffee, over cribs, over the way Fletch kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep.

“Oh my god,” I laugh wetly, dabbing at my eyes with the napkin Reese passes down the table. “I hate that I’m this person now.”

“You’re a mom now,” Reese says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’re allowed to cry about little football jerseys. It’s basically a rite of passage.”

Fletch leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. “You’re also allowed to be completely obsessed with them,” he murmurs. “Because I’m already picturing them in these, and it’s not fair how cute it’s going to be.”

My throat tightens. “We’re gonna be those parents, huh?”

He grins. “Full-on embarrassing. Matching hats. Foam fingers. The works.”

I laugh again, watery and overwhelmed, and maybe just a little in love with how he looks at me when I cry like this. Like it doesn’t scare him. Like he’s just grateful to be close enough to catch the tears.

Around us, conversation resumes. Plates are passed. Eli babbles from his high chair and Maggie chuckles as she wipes mashed sweet potato from his cheeks. Reese leans her head on Thorin’s shoulder, the picture of peace. And somehow, I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just for tonight.

Because maybe this is what healing feels like—surrounded by people who stayed. Who showed up. Who made room at the table and didn’t ask for anything in return.

The house quiets in waves.

The way the tide pulls back slowly, tugging at the edges, leaving behind soft footprints and full hearts.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and wine and the kind of warmth that lingers long after the candles are blown out. Dishes are stacked in the sink. Someone—probably Carson—started singing a Mariah Carey Christmas song off-key before Benji tackled him into the couch and declared a ceasefire in the name of holiday spirit.

Fletch brushes a kiss to the side of my head and murmurs something about checking on the twins’ video monitor in the guest room. His hand lingers at my back like he doesn’t really want to go, but knows I need this. Time. Space. A different kind of courage.

The kind that lets me face my parents without armor.

Reese catches my eye from the archway and nods toward the hallway. “They’re all set up in the Magnolia room,” she says softly. “Thought maybe you’d want…a minute.”

A minute. A year. A lifetime I never got.

I swallow the knot in my throat and nod.

I find them in the guest room that smells like fresh linen and memories I can’t quite name. My mom’s seated on the edge of the bed, fingers stilling around the frame of a photo that Reese must’ve snuck in here—one of me and my dad at one of his post-game celebrations. I’m six in the photo. Wearing a red hoodie three sizes too big, chocolate ice cream smeared across my cheek, and the biggest smile I’ve ever worn.