The house is quiet when I pull up in the cruiser, but warm light spills from the living room windows, painting rectangles of gold on the front lawn. It's these moments—coming home to my family—that make every difficult day worth it.
I hang my gun belt in the locked cabinet by the door. The sound of the Paw Patrol theme song drifts from the living room, along with Sophie's enthusiastic narration.
"And that's Marshall, James. He's the fire pup. He's clumsy but brave, just like Daddy says you'll be someday."
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me.
Isabella is curled up on our oversized couch, her paint-stained maternity overalls testament to a productive day in her studio.
Our eighteen-month-old son is propped against her chest, his dark curls wild and untamed like his mother's.
Emma, now thirteen and starting to show hints of the young woman she'll become, is sprawled on the floor with her homework spread around her.
And Sophie, ten going on thirty, sits cross-legged in front of the TV, taking her big sister duties very seriously.
"Everything okay at the station?" Isabella asks, noticing me first.
Her smile still hits me the same way it did that first night, like sunshine breaking through clouds.
"Just paperwork today," I assure her, crossing to kiss her hello. James immediately reaches for me with grabby hands, his favorite word "Dada" tumbling from his lips.
"Someone missed you," Isabella laughs as I scoop up our son. He immediately grabs my beard with both hands—a habit that should be annoying but somehow never is.
"Dad," Emma looks up from her math homework. "Can you help me with these equations later? Mom tried but she admits she's useless at algebra."
"Hey!" Isabella protests good-naturedly. "I help with English and…Painting!"
It's an old joke between them. Emma had been skeptical of Isabella at first, testing boundaries and watching for any sign that this new woman might try to replace her mother's memory.
But Isabella never tried to be Claire. Instead, she carved out her own space in our family, supporting Emma's softball dreams while admitting her own athletic limitations, helping with English homework but deferring to me for math and science.
"Speaking of paintings," I settle onto the couch with James, who's already half-asleep against my shoulder, "how did the gallery showing go?"
Isabella's eyes light up. "Sold three pieces! And the owner wants to feature my work in their summer exhibition."
"That's amazing, sweetheart."
Pride swells in my chest. Five years ago, she arrived in Cedar Falls with nothing but a wedding dress and broken dreams. Now her little art studio downtown is thriving, her paintings selling in galleries across the state.
"Mom painted me and James today," Sophie announces, finally tearing herself away from the TV. "But she won't let us see it until it's finished."
"It's a surprise for Father's Day," Isabella explains, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth. "Which I wasn't supposed to mention."
I laugh, shifting James to a more comfortable position. "I'll pretend to be surprised."
"Dad," Emma says suddenly, "did you tell Mom about the college recruiter who came to my game yesterday?"
Isabella sits up straighter. "What recruiter?"
"From Oregon State," I explain. "She was impressed with Emma's pitching. Wants to track her progress over the next few years."
"My baby, the future college athlete," Isabella beams, reaching over to ruffle Emma's hair. The casual gesture—and the fact that Emma allows it—speaks volumes about how far they've come.
"Mo-om," Emma protests, but she's smiling. "I'm not a baby anymore."
"No," Isabella agrees softly. "You're growing into an amazing young woman. Just like your mom would have wanted."
The mention of Claire doesn't bring pain anymore.
Just a gentle ache of remembrance and gratitude.
We keep her memory alive in the family, her photos still hanging on the walls alongside newer ones.
Isabella made sure of that, understanding that love doesn't have to be diminished to make room for more.
"Speaking of growing," Sophie pipes up, "when is the new baby coming? James needs someone to play with."
Isabella rubs her barely-visible bump. "Still about four months to go, honey. These things take time."
"It's a girl," Sophie declares with absolute certainty. "I can tell."
"Oh you can, can you?" I tease. "Like you could 'tell' James was going to be a girl?"
Sophie shrugs, unperturbed. "I was practicing my prediction skills then. I'm better now."
"Your mother called today," Isabella tells me, changing the subject. "She's coming for a visit next week. Says she needs to spoil her grandchildren before the new one arrives."
My mom had taken to Isabella immediately, recognizing in her the same strength she'd always admired in Claire. She'd been instrumental in helping us navigate those early days of blending our family, offering wisdom without judgment.
Isabella's own mother had taken longer to come around.
She'd missed our small wedding ceremony, though she'd sent a lovely but impersonal gift.
It wasn't until James was born that something shifted.
Maybe it was seeing her daughter truly happy, or maybe it was just the primal pull of grandmotherhood, but she's been making slow steps toward reconciliation ever since.
Her father remains distant, though Isabella seems at peace with that now. "You can't make someone love you the way you need to be loved," she told me once. "Sometimes the kindest thing is to let go."
"Daddy," James mumbles against my neck, pulling me from my thoughts. "Story?"
"Bath first," I tell him, standing. "Then story."
"I'll help," Sophie volunteers, always eager to assist with her little brother. "I can do all the voices better than Dad anyway."
"True," I admit, following her toward the stairs. "But I do better sound effects."
"Mom does the best voices," Emma calls after us. "Remember when she did the entire cast of Frozen?"
"That's because your mom is talented at everything," I call back, hearing Isabella's laugh in response.
Later, after James is bathed and storied and tucked into his big-boy bed, after Emma has finished her homework and Sophie has finally run out of things to tell us about her day, after the house has settled into its nighttime quiet, I find Isabella in our bedroom.
She's standing at the window, one hand resting on her small bump, looking out at the stars.
"Penny for your thoughts," I say, wrapping my arms around her from behind.
She leans back against me, sighing contentedly. "Just thinking about that first night. When you found me wandering down Main Street in that ridiculous dress."
"Best traffic stop of my career," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her neck.
"Did you know then?" she asks. "That this is how it would turn out?"
"Not consciously," I admit. "But something in me recognized you. Like my heart knew what my head hadn't figured out yet."
She turns in my arms, rising on tiptoes to kiss me. "My running away brought me home."
"Our home," I agree, sliding my hand over her bump. "Our family."
"Our future," she adds, then laughs as tiny feet kick against my palm. "See? Even this one agrees."
I pull her closer, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, paint and lavender and something uniquely Isabella. Five years ago, I thought I knew what happiness was, what love could be. I was wrong.
This—this beautiful, messy, perfectly imperfect life we've built together—this is everything I never knew I needed.
"I love you," I tell her, the words as true now as they were the first time I said them.
"I love you too," she replies, then adds with a mischievous smile, "Sheriff Reynolds."
"Mrs. Reynolds," I counter, backing her toward our bed.
Her laughter, bright and free, echoes through our home—the home she helped make whole again, the home she ran away to find, the home we build together every day.
And I think, not for the first time, how grateful I am that she chose that particular street to walk down, wearing that particular dress, on that particular day five years ago.
Some things, it turns out, are simply meant to be.
Thank you for reading it!