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“You’re late,” he says. Then, “Did you meet the players?” he asks eagerly.
“Not yet,” I say. “They were off doing something else today. I’ll meet them tomorrow, though,” I finish. At this, hedoeslook disappointed.
However, his sweet eight-year-old face splits into a huge gap-toothed grin when I reach in the back and hand him the Blizzard. “Dinner…is served,” I say with a flourish. Then add in a loud whisper, “But, psst, don’t tell anyone, or they’ll revoke my license.”
His face grows earnest as he solemnly intones, “I won’t, I swear it. Cross my heart and hope to die.” His blue eyes are equal parts imploring and mischievous, and my heart breaks and heals in the same instant.
Even if he really is just my nephew, I love this boy like my son. Lucy would be proud. My only qualm with raising Liam is that I never had any romantic adventures of my own; I had a baby to take care of, even as a virgin. Shit, I am to this day because I stopped being concerned with who to sleep with first when Liam came into the picture.
Part of me really wonders how I’m gonna feel about having so many ripped, sweaty, athletic bodies surrounding me all the time, each of them just dripping with testosterone. In reality, it probably won’t change much, but a girl can dream she meets her husband out there.
The straight face Liam tries to sport lasts for about five more seconds before he dissolves into a fit of giggles, no doubt fueled by the Oreo and vanilla ice cream caloric monster I just shoved into his hands. I amsogoing to regret this decision at bed time, but, right now, hearing his laughter makes my insides melt and life feel right. Sometimes, you just have to eat dessert first.
We pull up to the house in the small San Antonio neighborhood filled with old ranch homes. The house is mine now, since Gigi passed away last year, following Pappy by only 6 months.
He’d had a heart attack, and I’m still convinced that she died of a broken heart. She never quite recovered from his sudden death—none of us had.
Still, it was a heavy blow to bring her coffee one morning and find she’d slipped quietly in the night. Thankfully, Liam had been sleeping at a friend’s. That whole morning was sad and surreal enough without having to explain to a six-and-a-half-year-old why his Gigi wouldn’t wake up.
Sometimes, life sucks.
But it goes on. It has to.
We recovered. And though the house fills a little empty without their love and laughter, it’s still home.
This was Lucy’s and my refuge after the car accident that took our parents but spared us. Where we whispered our secrets and shared our dreams for the future. Where I held her and hugged her after every stupid boy broke her heart.
Where I had my own first, terrible, awkward kiss after prom. It’s where Liam learned to walk and talk and where he lost his first tooth.
There’s a lifetime of little moments within these walls. Every brick holds a bounty of joys and heartaches. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Okay, that’s a lie. The house is a bit dated, and I honestly can’t wait to give everything an update and a fresh coat of paint, but between work, school and Liam, I just haven’t had the time.
But even with a face lift, the heart of the house would remain the same. And that’s the point. This is a house full of life and loss and love—always love.
Running on a weeks’ worth of sugar, Liam darts out of the car and races into the house as soon as I close the garage.
“You better be running to take a bath!” I yell as I follow him in and head to the kitchen to start cooking actual food.
No matter what I said in the car, a Blizzard does not make a nutritionally sound dinner. And I would be grossly negligent in my nutritionist duties if I let him go to bed without eating something healthy and well-balanced.
The kitchen is actually the only room that’s seen a bit of updating. I repainted the walls and cabinets two years ago.
I thought the bright butter yellow walls and light blue cabinets made the black and white checkerboard tiles pop. Gigi thought I was crazy when I brought home the paint, but she loved the end result.
Within a few minutes, I’ve thrown together a quick chicken and vegetable stir-fry. I poke my head out of the kitchen and yell, “Liam! Dinner’s ready!”
“Coming!”
Liam whips around the corner and careens into the kitchen as I’m setting the table.
“Did you take a bath?” I ask, eyeing his damp hair.
“Yes,” he says as he sits at the butcher block kitchen table. I sniff his hair as I put his plate in front of him.
“With soap?” I ask, seeking clarification. I don’t know what it is about boys and their aversion to baths, but I swear Liam spends more time doing things to trick me into thinking he bathed than it would take for toactuallybathe. However, his hairdoessmell clean.
“Yes,” he sighs in exasperation as he starts shoveling chicken, rice, and vegetables into his mouth with single-minded focus.
“Just checking,” I reply with a smile, picking up my own fork.
No matter what darkness the day brings, coming home to this little boy, who holds my heart in the palm of his often grubby little hands, makes the world a little brighter.
There is nothing and no one I wouldn’t protect him from. And I swear, I’ll be his shield against heartache for as long as there’s breath in my body.
