Page 34 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)
It’s true—Milo has claimed Thaddeus as an honorary uncle, and Thad has embraced the role with surprising enthusiasm. The leather-jacketed enforcer becomes a completely different person around children, patient and gentle and endlessly creative with games and stories.
The doorbell rings just as we’re setting the table, and Milo races to answer it.
“Uncle Thad! I graduated! I wore a bow tie and everything!”
“No way!” Thad’s voice carries from the entryway. “Let me see this graduate properly.”
He appears in our kitchen with Milo on his shoulders, grinning broadly, while Sloane follows close behind, carrying a box that looks like it holds a professionally decorated cake. She’s wearing an amused expression as she watches Thaddeus’s theatrical entrance.
“Aunt Sloane!” Milo calls out happily. “Did you bring the good cake again?”
“Of course I did,” Sloane says with a laugh, setting the box on our counter. “I can’t let Uncle Thad’s reputation for showing up empty-handed continue unchallenged.”
“Hey! I brought something, too,” Thad gripes. “Sorry I missed the ceremony, kiddo. Had some business to handle, but I brought you something to make up for it.”
The “something” turns out to be a child-sized leather jacket with “Future Librarian” stamped on the back.
“For when you’re old enough to ride motorcycles and read stories to kids,” Thad explains seriously. “Very important to have the right gear.”
Milo tries it on immediately. The jacket, though kid-sized, is still comically big on him, but it makes him feel incredibly grown up. “Look, Mama! Look, Poppa Sebastian! I’m a motorcycle librarian!”
“The coolest kind,” I agree, while Aspen rolls her eyes fondly.
As we’re sitting down to eat, the doorbell rings again. Through the window, I spot three familiar figures: Iris, Mabel, and Dorothy, the Silver Swimmers who’ve appointed themselves honorary grandmothers to every child in Harmony Glen.
“Oh, good.” Aspen laughs. “I was wondering when they’d show up.”
The elderly women bustle in carrying an enormous cake decorated with academic caps and diplomas made of frosting.
“We couldn’t let Milo’s graduation pass without a proper celebration,” Iris announces, setting the cake on our counter. “This is a major milestone!”
“Plus, we wanted to give you some advice,” Dorothy adds, settling into a chair without being invited. “About kindergarten preparation and life skills development.”
“Don’t listen to Dorothy,” Mabel stage-whispers to Milo. “She thinks four-year-olds should be learning to balance checkbooks.”
What follows is a delightfully chaotic dinner party, with Thad telling increasingly ridiculous stories about his motorcycle adventures while Sloan provides perfectly timed fact-checks that make everyone laugh harder.
The Silver Swimmers use lulls in the conversation to offer contradictory advice about everything from nutrition to bedtime routines, and Milo holds court in his leather jacket, clearly delighted to be the center of so much attention.
During a brief lull in the conversation, he stands up on his chair and raises his milk glass as if he’s making a toast.
“I want to say thank you to everyone for coming to my graduation dinner,” he announces with the solemnity of a diplomat. “To Mama for taking care of me always, and to Poppa Sebastian for making everything magical, and to Daddy for bringing me the dinosaur book and sharing ice cream.”
A hush falls over the table as we process his words. This little boy has found space in his heart for everyone who shows up consistently.
“And to Uncle Thad for the jacket, and Aunt Sloane for the good cake, and to Grandma Iris and Grandma Mabel and Grandma Dorothy for the second good cake and for teaching me about swimming and for always having butterscotch candies.”
The Silver Swimmers practically glow with pride at being claimed as honorary grandmothers.
“But mostly,” Milo continues, “thank you for being my family. All of you. The kind that chooses to love each other.”
As he settles back into his chair, looking pleased with his speech, I feel Aspen’s emotions through our bond—overwhelming love, pride, and gratitude for the community that’s embraced our little family.
“To chosen family,” Thad says, raising his beer bottle.
“To showing up,” Aspen adds, lifting her wineglass.
“To love that multiplies,” I contribute, my water glass joining the informal toast.
“To butterscotch candies!” Milo shouts, making everyone laugh.
As the evening winds down and our guests begin to leave, I help clean up while Aspen puts an exhausted Milo to bed in his new leather jacket (after negotiating it down from wearing it to sleep to wearing it over his pajamas “just for tonight”).
“Good day?” I ask, settling beside her on the couch as the apartment returns to peaceful quiet.
“Perfect day,” she murmurs, curling into my side. “Did you see Derek’s face during Milo’s speech? When Milo thanked him at the graduation for showing up?”
“I saw it. He looked like someone who finally understood what he’d been missing.”
“Think he’ll keep improving?”
Through our bond, I feel her hope and caution, her desire to believe that Derek might become the father Milo deserves while protecting herself from disappointment.
“I think he’s finally ready to do the work,” I say honestly. “And if he is, Milo gets even more love in his life.”
“More love,” she repeats softly. “I never thought I’d be okay with that. With sharing him.”
“You’re not sharing him. You’re giving him more people to count on. There’s a difference.”
As we sit in the comfortable quiet of our apartment, listening to Milo’s steady breathing from his bedroom, I think about how far we’ve all come.
An anxious librarian once afraid of taking up space.An overwhelmed single mother learning to trust. An unreliable father finally discovering what showing up means.
And a little boy who’s teaching all of us what love looks like.
Some families are born. Some are chosen. Some are reconstructed from broken pieces into something stronger and more beautiful than what came before.
Ours is all three, and it’s exactly what we all need it to be.
I stand and give Sebastian a look that I hope leaves no doubt about what I want to do in the bedroom when I ask, “Think it’s time for bed?”
He’s standing next to me in a flash, practically pulling me through our bedroom door. We wash up, then crawl into bed together.
He settles beside me with a contented sigh, his snakes immediately draping themselves along the pillows as he pulls me against his chest. The heat radiating from him is intoxicating—it always is—but tonight there’s something extra.
The satisfaction of a perfect day, the pride in watching our family grow stronger.
“Enough talk about everyone else.” His hands find my waist, completely surrounding it, and when I lean close to brush my lips against his, the kiss tastes like promises and forever and the particular magic that happens when everyone you know gets along with each other.
“We should probably sleep,” I whisper against his mouth, even as my body presses closer to his heat.
“Should we?” His snakes seem to be smiling, swaying in lazy patterns that somehow make the room feel more intimate. “Because I was thinking we might have some celebrating of our own to do.”
The hunger in his voice sends shivers through me. “What kind of celebrating?”
Instead of answering with words, he shows me exactly what kind, and much later—after we’ve thoroughly appreciated each other and the life we’ve built together—we drift off to sleep wrapped in each other’s arms, ready for whatever beautiful chaos tomorrow might bring.