I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “Mrs. Kowalski, look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head.
“I’m not Shannon,” I said firmly. “I never will be. And Patrick isn’t Marco. We are two people who got handed the worst hand imaginable, and we’re trying to play it the best we can. Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s loud. But you should have seen Alec today.”
She blinked, confused by the shift. “Alec?”
“He was playing soccer. He was tackling Rome. He waslaughing.” I leaned closer. “When was the last time you saw Alec laugh like that? Before we brought our ‘storm’ into his life?”
She didn’t answer, but a single tear spilled over and tracked through the powder on her cheek.
“You’ve held this family together through the worst of times,” I continued, my voice softening. “Patrick told me. He said he wouldn’t be standing if it weren’t for you. You created the structure that kept them alive when their world ended. But they don’t need to just survive anymore. They need to live.”
She brushed the tear away, her pride warring with her pain.
“I can’t do this without you,” I said.
She looked at me, confusion furrowing her brow. “What?”
“Ten kids,” I said, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Twelve on the weekends when Michael and Shelly drop off the boys. And Patrick and I both work. We’re going to need help. Not just an employee, but someone who knows them. Someone who loves them.” I paused. “Someone who can remind me that Eoin is allergic to strawberries, and that Brody needs quiet time before bed or he gets weepy.”
I reached across the table, and I covered her hand with mine. It was cold and rough, the skin thin like parchment paper.
“I’m not here to take your place,” I promised her. “I’m here to stand beside you. We’re going to need a general to run this army, Mrs. Kowalski. Are you resigning your commission, or are you going to help us build this?”
She stared at our joined hands. For a long moment, the only sound was the refrigerator humming in the corner.
Then, she took a shaky breath. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes with quick, efficient movements. When she put it away, her spine straightened. The steel returned to her posture, but the brittleness was gone.
“Eoin isn’t allergic to strawberries,” she said, her voice thick but steady. “He just claims they make his tongue itchy because he prefers chocolate ice cream.”
I smiled, feeling a knot in my chest loosen. “See? I’d be lost without you.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, with an appraisal that felt weightier than any interview I’d ever sat through.
“He loves you,” she said. “I haven’t seen him look at anyone like that since... well. Since before.”
“I love him too,” I said. “And them. All of them.”
She nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. “Well then. We can’t have the proposal happening over broken crockery, can we?”
She stood up, smoothing her apron. “Go on. Mr. McCrae is waiting. I will clean this up.”
“We can help?—”
“Go,” she ordered, pointing a stern finger at the door. “Before I change my mind and put you on a cleaning schedule.”
I stood, impulsive gratitude washing over me. I hugged her—a quick, hard squeeze. She stiffened for a second, shocked, then awkwardly patted my back.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I found Patrick in the hallway, leaning against the wall, looking like he was about to jump out of his skin. He was gripping the broom so hard his knuckles were white.
“Is she?—”
“She’s fine,” I said, taking the broom from him and leaning it against the wall. I took his hand. “She’s staying.”
Relief washed over his face, making him look ten years younger. He let out a long breath. “Thank God. What did you say to her?”
