Page 18

Lark

Stepping into my childhood home is like walking back in time to when I was younger.

Even when I offered to buy my mother a bigger, newer, more upscale place, she’d refused. She told me she wanted to live here with the memories of raising me and the time we’d had with my father while he was still here.

That thought squeezes my heart as my finger trails along the craftsman cabinets my father had built into the front room to hold shoes and jackets.

“Your dad was so proud of that,” Mom says from the kitchen, her voice warm and filled with a bittersweet nostalgia.

“As he should have been.” It’s impressive, really. The man’s ability to build literally anything had been something my mom remembers fondly and often when reminiscing about the man.

I wander into the living room, drawn to the mantle. Or more accurately, the pictures above it. I can close my eyes and remember stockings hung here every year, cozy fires, times spent drinking hot cocoa on the couch with my mom.

There he is, Dad, frozen mid-laugh in a frame of tarnished silver. Beside him, a little me grins toothlessly, likely just happy to hear his laugh. I wonder, as I have so many times before, what made him laugh like that? Was it something I did? Some silly baby antic that made him burst out laughing? I swear if I clear my mind enough I can hear his laughter, though there’s no way that’s possible.

“I always thought I’d follow in his footsteps,” I say, thinking about his skill woodworking. But I’d gone a totally different direction.

“Still can.” Mom's optimism never wanes; it’s one of the things I love about her.

“Maybe in another life.”

I turn away, eyes catching on the familiar scuffs along the hallway—battle scars from indoor soccer matches and reckless sprints from imaginary monsters. Each mark, each dent in the hardwood, a story. A memory. Time spent with a mother who raised me to see the value in myself and how a good parent can make or break a person. I only wonder what my life would have been like with both her and my dad.

“This pace hasn't changed a bit,” I say, my whisper meant more for me than mom.

“It wouldn't feel right if it did.” Mom leans against the doorframe, apron-clad, flour dusting her hands. “And I don’t have the heart to change a single thing.” Her gaze wanders the memories, a faraway look in her eyes telling me she’s in another place, another time.

“You’re right.” Of course, she is.

I continue wandering, wondering if it’s healthy that the place feels like a museum. Dad's recliner sits untouched, the leather creased from years of use. The TV, ancient by today's standards, still has a VCR attached—mom never cared to upgrade or change things, preferring to be here alone with her memories after I left home.

“You should've seen him trying to fix that thing,” Mom says, pointing to the VCR. “He swore it just needed 'a little love'.” Mom’s soft laugh fills my heart even as sorrow creeps in.

“Love couldn't save it from obsolescence.” I think a moment about how far we’ve come just in my lifetime, but my mom isn’t quiet.

“Nothing does.” Her smile fades, just for a second.

We stand there, lost in the past, of what used to be. The house seems too quiet, as if holding its breath while we remember a man who was taken from us far too soon.

“Sometimes it feels like he's still here.” Mom sounds heartbroken even after all these years, and I can’t imagine how hard things have been for her.

“Maybe he is.” I’m not one to believe in things like that, but I know mom finds comfort in thinking everything happens for a reason, and that just because we can’t see something or touch it or quantify it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Mom nods and wipes her hands on her apron, ready to return to the kitchen. “I hope so.”

I pace the length of the living room, my gaze lingering on a photo of me as a toddler perched on my father's shoulders. My heart tightens; I am a father now, too.

The weight of that truth settles heavily on my chest. Love for my son swells within me, fierce and protective. Yet there's this gnawing fear, an agonizing whisper warning that I could lose him—and Lara. I lost my dad. I’m no stranger to the unfairness of life.

I know firsthand the pain of growing up with an absent father. I can't be that. Won't be that. But fear is a constant companion that likes to whisper doubts and regrets. What if I fail him? What if I can’t keep him safe? What if he grows up and we grow apart?

“Still pacing like a caged lion?”

I glance up at mom, who’s smiling at me from the doorway. She’s told me at least a hundred times that I can’t help her make dinner, but I’m about to make that a hundred and one.

“Can I help?” I ask.

She shakes her head. I know she sees right through me, always has.

“I know that look,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes are deep with understanding. She reaches up, her hand cupping my cheek as she rises on her toes. I bend down slightly, meeting her halfway. Her lips press against my forehead, a warm peck that smells like home and cinnamon.

“You have nothing to be worried about,” she says in an attempt to assure me. It doesn’t work, because my mind has decided to run through every possibility of what can go wrong, and I can’t make it stop.

“Now stop torturing yourself.” A smile deepens the creases at the corners of her eyes.

“Easy for you to say,” I say, the corners of my mouth quirking up despite the tightness in my chest.

“Because I’m right and you know it.” She steps back, hands on her hips, looking me up and down in a way that makes me feel like a child again. “You're a good man, Lark. A good father. Your boy knows that.”

“Does he?” He hasn’t really had the time to come to know me or that fact. And what if I’m not a good father? What if I’m screwing everything up?

“Without a doubt.” She moves past me, fussing over some trinket on the mantelpiece. “Love isn't measured in minutes or miles. It's the quality of those moments you do get, the depth of your presence when you are there.”

I blink, thinking about all my interactions so far with my son. If she’s right, then I’m doing pretty good. That thought brings me some relief.

“Thanks, Mom.” I exhale, suddenly feeling a little more at ease about everything.

“Thank me by relaxing and enjoying tonight.” She glances back at me, her expression stern but loving.

“Okay, Mom,” I say with a playful attitude like I’m a teenager again.

“Good.” She smiles, not at all fooled by my response. “Now, help me with these plates.”

“Sure thing.” I follow her into the kitchen, ready to face the evening ahead and grateful she’s finally letting me help out.

A steady knock sends my heart through the roof. Mom's hand gives the small of my back a gentle nudge, propelling me forward.

“Go let them in,” she says, excitement filling her voice. “I'll finish setting the table.”

With a swift spin, she disappears into the kitchen, leaving a trail of excited words about meeting her grandson and the woman who stole her son’s heart. I can't help but smile, her anticipation and excitement have her more animated than I can remember her being in a long time.

I shake my head, refusing to let nerves darken my mood. We’re going to have a good time and enjoy a family dinner together. But what if things don’t go well tonight?

I shove the thought out of my mind as stand before the door. “Relax,” I mutter under my breath, steeling myself before pulling the door open.

Lara stands there, our son's hand clasped in hers, both of their faces lighting up at the sight of me. His eyes, bright and wide, shift past me, eager for adventure.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, my voice soft but filled with warmth as I hunker down to his level. He beams, squeezing his mom's hand before stepping toward me.

“I have something to show you,” I say, winking at Lara before leading our son toward the backyard.

His gaze finds the towering wooden play structure. It’s a fortress of fun, a place for his imagination to run wild and for him to work off some of that endless energy he has while he’s here. His squeal of delight has me chuckling as he gives me a quick hug around the knees and dashes off.

“You never cease to surprise me,” Lara says, watching him with a mix of pride and relief.

“I’d do anything for him,” I say. And this is such a small gesture, making sure he feels welcome here because it’ll be one more home he gets to enjoy as he grows.

We turn back inside, entering the warmth of the dining room. The scent of roasting chicken fills the air, mingling with a subtle hint of fresh herbs. My mother stops moving, studying Lara’s face before opening her arms to the woman I love.

“Hello, Lara,” she says, her voice rich with sincerity.

Lara glances at me, then steps into my mother’s hug. The embrace seems to last an eternity, and to my amazement, Lara hugs her back. It’s like a silent surrender to the love offered.

“Thank you for this,” Mom says, pulling back just enough to look Lara in the eyes. A tremor of gratitude leaves her voice unsteady and Lara nods.

“Of course,” Lara says as if there was no other option; this is something that had to happen. And I’m grateful she sounds warm and happy and not bitter at that fact.

I stand there, watching these two incredible women connect over my son. For the first time in a long while, I feel the edges of my worries start to crumble. Things are amazing, and I have trust that they’ll only get better from here. And if they don’t, well, I’ll find a way to stack the deck in my favor.

Our son's laughter drifts in from outside, a sound that never fails to bring joy to my heart. I’m looking forward to dinner, and as I help my mother finish placing food on the table, I make my way to the back door.

“Time to wash up, champ,” I call out toward the backyard. He barrels through the door, grass stains on his jeans, his little face red with heat and excitement, and twigs in his hair.

“Grandma says I can have ice cream now!” His voice is high-pitched with glee as he skids to a stop in front of us.

“Is that so?” I arch an eyebrow at Mom, feigning surprise. She winks at him, the same mischievous glint in her eyes that I remember from my own childhood. Dessert before dinner is a family tradition, and I love that she’s already sharing them with him.

“Let’s get your hands washed,” she says, leading him toward the kitchen as Lara creeps closer to me.

“That’s so cute. I love that you have that family tradition,” Lara says.

“It’s a reminder that you can’t always save the best for last, since you never know which moment will be your last.” It’s a rule that took root after my father passed, and it’s one that I love coming home to. It’s not one I tend to apply to my own life – I don’t often have dessert, to be honest – but when I come home, it’s a cherished memory.

They come out of the bathroom, and he somehow looks squeaky clean. His hair is combed, and he’s a perfect model of a young man, save the grass stains on his knees.

“You clean up well, young man,” I tease.

I feel Lara elbow me in the ribs. “Like his father.”

I know she’s teasing me, but she might not realize she just admitted she thinks I look good, and that’s a thought that’s thrilling and telling all at once.

“Thanks, Grandma!” he says, rushing toward his mom to get a hug.

“Thank your dad and Lara,” my mom says, nodding toward us. “They said it was okay for you to have dessert first.”

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.” He’s quick to leap into his seat as my mom leaves the room and comes back with ice cream and bowls. Mint chocolate chip, because she knows what the best flavor is.

“I have to hear the backstory for this one,” Lara says softly into my ear, and I promise to tell her when there aren’t little ears around or a dinner I want to bring sadness to.

Win digs right into his ice cream and I can’t help but chuckle. “Slow down there, buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Don’t want you to choke, or worse… get a brain freeze.”

He nods seriously as if the thought of a brain freeze is certainly worse than choking.

We settle into our seats, the table heavy with comfort food that warms the room and makes my mouth water with the rich scents. The conversation drifts naturally around our son – and grandson - the center of our universe.

“He's doing great in school,” Lara says. “Well, not school. But he’s already being tutored, you know? And gymnastics class—he loves it.”

“Really?” My mother’s eyebrows lift, clearly pleased by how amazing her grandson is, which makes sense.

“Yep, and he's got a whole circle of friends. Play dates almost every weekend.” I watch Lara talk, loving how animated she is and happy to talk about him. I love that about her; she’s an incredible mom and it shows in him, the way she talks about him, and his ability to thrive.

“You're doing an amazing job with him,” I say, meaning every word.

Her cheeks flush a soft pink, a color that somehow suits her and softens her intensity. She looks away, but not before I catch the twinkle of unshed tears. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for her, being a single mom who is both a career woman and incredibly involved in her child’s life.

“Thank you,” she says, poking a bite of chicken.

“Your son is wonderful, Lara,” Mom chimes in, echoing my thoughts. “And it's clear you've been an incredible mother.”

“Thank you, both of you.” She sounds embarrassed this time, but I don’t mind that. I want her to know that not only do we see that she’s done a fantastic job, but that we’re in awe and proud of what she’s accomplished and the life she’s given him this far.

“Family is everything,” Mom says, reaching across the table to squeeze Lara's hand.

“You’re right,” Lara says, her tone sweet and soft.

I can’t help but wonder if this is the start of something new. A friendship. A family coming together for the sake of our son. A group of people who will champion one another every step of the way because that’s what family does.

No matter what, I want to see what happens next, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds for all of us.

“Can I go play again?” Win asks, his tone wistful. His plate is clean and us adults glance at one another. Lara nods and my mom smiles at me.

“Of course, you can,” Mom says.

He’s quick to take off and the joy in the air is unmistakable. There’s nothing like a child and grandchild to bring people together.

Plates clink softly as we clear the last remnants of dinner. Mom's hands are quick, efficient, but she pauses, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes as Win rushes back in, offering to help.

My mom nods. “If you help,” she says, “then we’ll have to build a fortress. What do you think of that?”

He nods, his eyes wide and excited as he learns how to stack dishes in the dishwasher.

But I take the dishes from them. “He helped. Time for you guys to go build a fortress,” I say, and my mom gives me a smile, her hands on her hips. But Win is already dashing toward the living room, excited.

“I’ve got this, Ma,” I say, washing dishes as Lara takes the spot by my side. Mom leaves the room and Lara and I clean up, shoulder to shoulder, a sense of comradery and comfort filling the space between us.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I ask, not meaning the dishes.

She glances up at me, startled. “I mean, it’ll be hard, but I’m okay.”

I can’t imagine the emotions she’s feeling. “Well, I’m here if you need to talk, or need company.” And before she can give me that look, I hold up a hand. “As friends, nothing more.” Of course, I want it to be more so very badly, but small steps. I need to take small steps.

Once the dishes are washed and the dishwasher is humming along, we step out into the living room, where hundreds of pillows transform the space into a fortress. I see Win peek out. “Who dares go there?” he asks in his best grown-up voice.

“Your parents, oh great king,” Lara says, laughter in her tone.

“Oh!” Win says, suddenly himself. “Is it time?”

I look at Lara and she nods, her throat flexing as she swallows hard. When he comes out, Lara kneels beside him, her voice soft but firm. “You've got my number, sweetie. Any time you want, just call and I'll be here.”

His gaze locks onto hers, so sincere it breaks my heart a little. “I’ll be fine, Mommy.” His voice is steady, braver than his years.

Lara’s smile looks more like she’s about to cry. “Promise?”

He nods, strong for the both of them. “Promise.”

Lara rises, looking to me, and I smile.

“Go on, then.” I nudge him gently toward the fortress. “Show Grandma how it's done.”

With a nod, he hurries back into the fortress. And I hang back, leaning against the doorframe, watching them. Pillows and blankets fly through the air. Mom laughs, a sound I haven't heard in ages, her movements animated as she helps him.

Mom catches my eye as she straightens up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “He's quite the architect,” she says, pride filling her tone.

“Yeah, he gets that from—” My words trail off, the bittersweet edge of memory filling my mind. From his grandfather. Dad would be so proud looking down on us now, I know it. I’m not sure how I know it, but I do.

Lara’s hand takes mine. “Let’s go,” she says softly, and walking out the front door feels like starting the rest of our lives together. And I can’t wait.