Chapter 7 - Springtime and New Beginnings
By April, the biting chill of the Ohio winter had surrendered to warm, golden afternoons that bathed our brick house in cheerful sunlight.
Lily was eight months old now. She was sitting up unsupported on the living room rug, her dark curls bouncing as she reached out with chubby hands to grab a bright yellow squeaky duck that Noah was dangling in front of her.
“Look at her go, Mom!” Noah cheered, clapping his hands as Lily let out a delighted gurgle and successfully tackled the duck, bringing it straight to her mouth to chew on it. “She’s basically a professional athlete.”
“She definitely has strong grip strength,” I laughed, sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, watching them from across the room.
Mark walked in from the garage, carrying a stack of gardening supplies. He dumped a bag of mulch by the back door and wiped his hands on a rag, smiling as he watched our son and daughter playing together.
“How are the tomato plants looking?” I asked him.
“ Promising,” Mark said, walking over and pressing a kiss to the top of my head before sinking onto the couch beside me. “Just like everything else around here.”
We hadn't heard a single word from Barbara since the morning she left. She hadn't called to apologize, hadn't sent a card for Lily’s half-birthday, and hadn't attempted to reach out through extended family. True to her bitter nature, she had chosen pride over family, effectively writing us out of her life.
At first, there had been a dull ache of disappointment for Mark, but that had long since faded into a quiet, steady sense of relief. We didn't need negativity in our lives. We didn't need people who measured human worth by spreadsheets, medical milestones, or superficial perfection.
We had each other. We had Noah’s fierce, loyal heart. And we had Lily, whose bright, infectious smile illuminated every single room she entered.
Later that afternoon, while Lily took her afternoon nap upstairs, Noah sat at the kitchen table with a box of crayons and a stack of construction paper.
I walked over, leaning over his shoulder to see what he was drawing.
It was a picture of our family. Four stick figures standing in front of our brick house, complete with a ridiculously oversized sun in the corner and a lopsided dog that looked more like a potato with legs.
“Who’s that right there?” I asked, pointing to a tiny figure standing right beside the baby carriage in the drawing.
“That’s me,” Noah said proudly, adding a superhero cape to the tiny figure with a black crayon. “Making sure nobody messes with my sister.”
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I smiled, my heart swelling until it felt too big for my chest. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss into his hair.
“Always,” I whispered.
