“They’re important to you, which makes them important to me. I’d like to meet them.”
Riva looks between us, clearly processing something. Then she sets down her glass of sparkling cider, her expression going serious.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Hey, Riva?”
“Is this move to Oregon, like, permanent?”
I glance at Griffin, whose whiskey-colored eyes reflect the Christmas lights from the tree we set up in the corner of the room. My daughter watches me with the kind of perceptiveness teenagers can summon at the oddest moments.
“It’s permanent. We’ll keep the house in LA for a while, but Wild Rose Point is home.”
“You’re happy,” she says quietly.
“I’m really happy,” I agree.
“Me too.” She nods, satisfied.
Griffin’s arm tightens around me, and I blink back tears. Who knew normal could be so amazing?
The countdown begins—ten, nine, eight—and we all stand, moving closer together. Griffin’s hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing as naturally as breathing.
Three, two, one.
“Happy New Year!”
Griffin kisses me as fireworks explode on the TV screen, and Riva makes exaggerated gagging sounds that dissolve into laughter. I pull her into a hug, the three of us standing together in front of the windows overlooking the Pacific.
“To new beginnings,” Griffin says, raising his glass.
“To family,” I add.
“To getting my window seat,” Riva chimes in, making us all laugh.
We clink our glasses together, and I look around at this house that feels like home. Not because of the floors or the furniture or the perfectly chosen paint colors, but because ordinary spaces become extraordinary when you share them with the right people.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of movement on the deck. A familiar masked face peers in at us, chittering indignantly.
Griffin grimaces. “Is that?—”
“The boss raccoon is back.” Riva grins at the creature. “I bet he brought the whole gang. Can we keep them?”
“Absolutely not,” I say firmly.
“They’re part of the house’s lore,” she argues.
Griffin’s laugh is like a warm blanket over me. “Your mom’s right. The trash pandas need to find their own place.”
“Fine.” Riva sighs dramatically. “But I’m naming that one Ricky.”
As if in response, good ole’ Rick chatters again before scampering off into the night.
“Goodbye, buddy.” Griffin waves. “Feel free not to come back.”
As the three of us stand together in the house my grandmother dreamed of but never got to see, I have a deeper appreciation for the value of hard-won dreams and hard-fought love. Real happiness doesn’t come from thread counts or square footage. It’s found in the messy and imperfect moments, and I’m so grateful to have them with Griffin.
“I love you,” I whisper to him as Riva returns to the kitchen for more popcorn.
“I love you, too.” He kisses my forehead, and I touch the rose charm at my throat. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
Love fills my entire being, knowing I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. It’s good to be home.
