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“Exactly. And they’re going to be home next month.”
Because they knew my mother would track them down and drag them home herself for Thanksgiving. You didn’t get to miss a holiday at Giulia Grassi’s table.
What’s more, our kids wouldn’t want to.
They just wanted to spread their wings.
They were going to be home all the time.
If for no other reason than they ran out of clean clothes.
I had a feeling that, for once, Savannah wouldn’t dread the laundry if it meant her kids were home for a visit.
A visit.
That kind of hit hard.
Two moving on.
But we still had several years for the rest of them.
By the time they were all out of the house, who knew, we might have our life filled with grand kids.
I suddenly understood why my mother had nagged us all to settle down and have kids.
Finished packing their van, the kids came back toward us.
There were tears. Lots of tears. Even the kids who tried to roll their eyes and pretend their mom and grandma were being ridiculous for crying looked a little misty eyed.
Then there’d been promises to call. And text. Often.
Then they were gone.
It wasn’t until I had her in bed later, after hearing from the kids that they were safely at the campgrounds and all set up, and the other kids were either in bed or out with friends, that she curled into me, resting her head up on my chest, that she seemed to let out a breath she’d been holding all day.
“What are we going to do when they all move out?” she asked, her fingers teasing over my skin.
“Start nagging them for grandkids, I imagine,” I told her, feeling the laugh that moved through her.
“Well, that is something to look forward to, I guess,” she said, leaning up to look down at me. “You know, you’re really taking this whole ‘indebted to you for life’ thing kind of seriously, huh?” she asked, giving me that sunny smile of hers.
“Deadly,” I agreed, giving her hair a tug.
“Hey, you know what we should do for our next anniversary?” she asked.
“Do acid and have adult experimentation?”
“I was going to say visit the safe house,” she said, beaming at me. “But I am always on board for adult experimentation.”
“Have I told you lately how glad I am that people wanted to kill me, so I could eventually marry you?” I asked, my arms going around her.
“Who’d have thought that getting shot would be the best thing that ever happened to me?” she asked.
Was it a conventional love story?
Not by a long shot.
But it was ours.
