“I know,” Alec said, looking down at his sneakers. “But Mum wouldn’t want us to be sad forever in a quiet house, would she? She liked noise. She would have liked Rome tackling people.”
I laughed, a wet, choked sound. “Aye, son. She absolutely would have.”
Alec jumped off the swing, suddenly energized. “Can I go inside now? Rome brought his Sega Genesis games, and he said he’d teach me how to play Sonic if I help him eat the garlic bread.”
“Go ahead,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Just save some bread for the rest of us.”
“No promises!” he called, already sprinting toward the back door.
I watched him run, light and fast, the heavy weight of the last year finally gone from his shoulders. He wasn’t just accepting the future; he was running toward it.
The house quieted as evening fell. Theresa and I had managed to get everybody fed, bathed, and into beds or sleeping bags scattered throughout the bedrooms. The task had been exhausting but deeply satisfying—a glimpse of what our life ahead would be.
Theresa had gone upstairs to read bedtime stories to the youngest ones, leaving me to finish cleaning up the dinner mess. I loaded the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, marveling at how quickly our families had blended.
I wiped down the counters, smiling at the handprints in spilled juice that no amount of cleaning ever seemed to fully remove. This house—so sterile when we’d first moved in—now felt properly lived in. Like a home.
The sound of Mrs. Kowalski’s footsteps pulled me from my thoughts. She entered the kitchen with her usual efficiency, carrying a notepad and pen. Her gray hair was pulled back in its customary tight bun, her expression inscrutable as always.
“The schedules for tomorrow, Mr. McCrae,” she said, placing the notepad on the counter. “I’ve adjusted for having all the youngsters here for breakfast. We’ll need to start the first round of pancakes by seven if everyone is to eat by eight-thirty.”
I glanced at the detailed timetable she’d prepared, noting how she’d allocated bathroom time in increments to accommodate everyone. Her thoroughness both impressed and slightly depressed me. Was this really how we lived? By schedules and timetables, as if the kids were troops to be deployed rather than young humans to be enjoyed?
“Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski,” I said, setting the notepad aside. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you about something.”
She straightened, folding her hands before her. “Yes, Mr. McCrae?”
I took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. Mrs. Kowalski’s opinion mattered to me more than I’d realized until this moment.
“I’m going to ask Theresa to marry me,” I said, watching her face. “Officially, that is. With a ring and everything.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“I see,” she said, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual. “And when will this be happening?”
“Tonight,” I replied.
Mrs. Kowalski set down her pen deliberately. Her pale blue eyes, usually warm despite her stern demeanor, had cooled to ice.
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. McCrae.”
The words shocked me. I stared at her, momentarily speechless. Of all the reactions I’d anticipated, this hadn’t been one of them.
“I beg your pardon?” I managed finally.
“You’re making a mistake,” she repeated, her voice calm. “It’s too soon. You haven’t properly processed Mrs. McCrae’s death.”
I felt a flash of anger. “It’s been over a year, Mrs. Kowalski.”
“A year is nothing,” she countered. “Especially for the little ones. They’re only just beginning to adjust to life here in America. And now you want to upend everything again?”
I leaned back against the counter, trying to understand her resistance. “The children adore Theresa. They get along wonderfully with her family. Surely, you’ve seen that.”
“What I’ve seen,” Mrs. Kowalski said, her tone sharpening slightly, “is a man rushing into a relationship because he’s lonely and overwhelmed by single fatherhood. And a woman who is still deeply wounded by her husband’s death, with a traumatized family of her own.” She shook her head. “Bringing two families in mourning together won’t lead to recovery, Mr. McCrae. It will only bring disorder.”
Her words stung with uncomfortable truths. Had I rushed into this? Was I using Theresa as a bandage for my own grief? But no—what I felt for Theresa went far beyond convenience or desperation. It was real and solid and true.
“You need someone stable,” Mrs. Kowalski continued, her voice softening slightly. “Someone who understands your life, your background. Someone who can help you manage what you already have, not someone who brings more crises into this house.”
