She was equal parts excited and anxious, but mostly just thrilled that she got to stay in the neighborhood she knew after we moved. Her friends were close, the school was just a few blocks away, and she liked that we’d kept her routine as steady as possible.
What she didn’t say out loud—but I could see it in the way she held Austin’s hand a little tighter lately—was that it made all the difference having him there.
He meant it when he said he’d take care of the before-and-after-school stuff. He was the one who packed her lunch just the way she liked it, with the extra pickles in a little cup. He made her brush her teeth when she was stalling. He braided her hair—after many,manyonline tutorials—and she beamed the whole time.
He was steady. Present. Everything I once thought I couldn’t count on.
Austin worked full-time for Wes now—officially on the books. He came home most days with sawdust in his hair and stories about the latest drama happening between guys on the crew. He loved it. Not just the work, but the purpose behind it.
Last month, with leftover materials from a custom sunroom project, he’d built Winnie a tiny playhouse in the backyard. Painted it lavender with a yellow door and little flower boxes under the windows.
She called it the Sparkle Fort and declared it a fairy-friendly zone.
Sometimes when I was working late on a restoration piece, I’d glance out the window and catch Austin sitting on the back porch steps, listening patiently while she explained her fairy kingdom’s bylaws or read him a chapter from one of her dog-eared books.
It was such a small life. So ordinary in the very best way.
But the way he loved us—fully, fiercely, without ever once flinching—made it feel big.
I set down the dish towel and leaned back into him. “She’s going to crush first grade.”
“Ha!” he cackled. “She’s going to run that school by Halloween.”
I winked in his direction. “She gets that from me.”
He laughed. “Obviously.”
I reached for the mixing bowl Austin had abandoned in favor of playing sous-chef to Winnie and started stirring what was left of the whipped cream.
“You know,” I said, eyeing the slightly lopsided crust on our pie, “I don’t want to insult your skills or anything, but this crust looks like it was rolled out by a pirate with a hook hand.”
Winnie gasped from her stool. “The captain would never! He’s very precise with his hook!”
Austin tried to look wounded. “I’ll have you know I followed the recipe exactly.”
“Uh-huh.” I tapped the spoon against the bowl and smirked.
“I was distracted,” he said. “Someone came in here in my favorite shirt and ruined my concentration.”
I shot him a slow, exaggerated look. “Is that so?”
Before he could reply, Winnie let out a dramatic groan and covered her eyes. “You guys are being mushy again.”
Austin grinned and flicked a bit of flour at her. “Just wait till you’re older. Being mushy is the best part.”
Winnie wrinkled her nose but didn’t argue. She was too busy sneaking a fingerful of filling from the pie tin.
Outside, a breeze swept through the open windows, fluttering the corner of the flyer and rustling the wildflowers in the vase.
The porch swing creaked gently.
It had been the first thing Austin built for me when we moved in—a surprise I found one evening after a long day of work, complete with two mismatched throw pillows and a handwritten note on the back:For slow mornings, long talks, and everything in between.
I smiled as I looked at it now, swaying just enough to remind me how much we’d grown here already. How much further we would go.
Austin’s arm slipped around my waist. “What are you smiling at?”
I leaned into him. “Just ... everything.”
