His words echo what he said the first time I tried to explain my parents to him, nervous about what he’d think. He sees me. He’s always seen me.
I drive the rest of the way up to the house, my stomach fluttering with nerves, but it’s a different kind of nervousness than I felt the last time I brought a man home. This isn’t fear that Wyatt will judge my family. It’s the weight of what this moment means — I’m bringing him home. I’m integrating him into the most authentic part of my life. I’m telling my parents, without words, that this is real. That he’s the one.
My parents are waiting on the porch. My mom, with her long, silver-streaked braid and laugh lines, stands hand in hand with my dad. The moment I step out of the car, my mom envelops me in a fierce hug that smells of lavender and yeast.
“You’re home,” she whispers into my hair. “You’re finally home.” When she pulls back, her eyes are shining with tears. “And you brought him. The man of great declarations.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“Nico sent me a video,” my mom says with a knowing smile. “Of his gallery speech. The part where he talked about you helping him find his authentic self? I cried, sweetheart. Becausethat’s what you needed too — someone who saw your authentic self and loved it.”
I turn to make the introductions, my heart full. “Mom, Dad, this is Wyatt.”
My dad shakes Wyatt’s hand firmly, his gaze direct and assessing but warm. “Wyatt,” he says, his voice a rumbling baritone. “Any man who speaks about my Snow-flower the way you did at that gallery is welcome in my home.”
Wyatt looks slightly embarrassed but pleased. “Thank you, sir. She makes it easy to speak the truth.”
My mom steps forward and takes Wyatt’s hands in hers, studying them carefully. “You have good hands,” she says, a cryptic observation that somehow makes perfect sense coming from her. “You make things with them.”
Wyatt doesn’t even blink at the unconventional compliment. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, his Texas politeness charming against my parents’ bohemian earthiness. “I do.”
“Good,” she says with satisfaction. “You’re perfect for my Snow.” She meets his eyes.
“Mom,” I say, embarrassed, but Wyatt just smiles.
“I hope so,” he says sincerely.
My dad insists on giving Wyatt a tour of the farm, and I know this is the real test. They walk through the rows of vegetables, my dad explaining his philosophy of companion planting, of working with the land instead of against it. I watch from the porch as Wyatt listens with genuine interest, asking smart questions about soil composition and crop rotation. He doesn’t pretend to know things he doesn’t, and he doesn’t condescend. He’s just respectful, curious, and present.
The real bonding happens in my dad’s workshop. Through the window, I watch my dad show Wyatt the hand-carved wooden bowls he makes. I see Wyatt’s face light up with recognition — a fellow craftsman. They’re talking animatedlynow, Wyatt describing his own furniture-building, my dad nodding with understanding.
Two men from completely different worlds, finding common ground in the grain of a piece of oak.
While the men are in the workshop, my mom leads me to her flower garden. We sit on an old, weathered bench, the same one where she taught me the names of the constellations when I was a little girl.
“He’s good for you,” my mom says, her gaze fixed on the bees buzzing around the lavender bushes. “I can see it in the way you move, the way you hold yourself. You’re not making yourself smaller anymore.”
“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” I admit.
“You were planted in a place with no sun,” she says, taking my hand. “And you did what you had to do to survive. But now you’re back in the light.” She turns to look at me, her eyes full of wisdom. “This man — he doesn’t try to dim your light. He helps you shine brighter.”
“I love him, Mom,” I say, and it feels important to say it out loud to her.
“I know you do, sweetheart.” She squeezes my hand. “And he loves you. Not the kind that demands you change or hide who you are. The kind that says ‘I see all of you and I choose all of you.’”
I feel tears pricking at my eyes. “I’m sorry I stayed away for so long. I’m sorry.”
She pulls me into a hug, her arms strong and comforting. “There’s no need for that. There is nothing to forgive. You’re home now. That’s what matters.”
She stands and hands me a small trowel. “Come,” she says. “Help me plant these new seedlings. It’s good to put your hands in the earth. It reminds you of what’s real.”
We work in comfortable silence, our hands in the rich, dark soil. And with each seedling I place in the ground, I feel like I’m planting a piece of myself back where it belongs. I’m reclaiming this part of me.
Later, we gather around the farmhouse table for dinner. The meal is simple — vegetable stew, fresh salad, and my mom’s warm, crusty bread. The conversation is easy, full of laughter and stories.
Wyatt fits in seamlessly, but not because he’s pretending or performing. He’s just himself. He helps my dad carry food to the table. He compliments my mom’s cooking with a sincerity that makes her beam. He tells a funny story about his own family in Texas, about the time his dad tried to build a barbecue pit that ended up looking like a modernist sculpture.
“Your parents sound wonderful,” my mom says. “I’d love to meet them someday.”
