Mel:Yep. Out with Sam, sister day before she leaves\*sad face emoji\*But I’ll be there.
Me:Nothing beats a pre-departure bonding marathon. Cassy and I are heading to the rink.
Mel:Aww. you’re wearing many titles like champ. Big bear favorite uncle, Coach Dazzler…
I chuckled.
Me:Carrying the titles with pride. Coach Dazzler—now that’s a nickname I like.
Mel:There’re many more…
Me:Oh, I bet there are. I want to hear every single one.
Mel:\*smile emoji\*Save our catch-up for tonight.
And the countdown began.
Me:Tell Sam she owes me one farewell toast, or I’ll track her down in Baltimore with a glittery brunch hat.
Mel:Ha! She said you’re invited to the going-away lunch next Sunday. Don’t flake.
No flaking here, Melanie Boyd. Couldn’t wait to see her away from that rinkside focused, no-nonsense zone she slipped into like second nature. I lived for poking fun at her when she got that serious.
I found Abby in the living room. “Dinner is on.” Then I turned to Cassy. “Sweet, you ready?”
She hopped down and twirled in excitement.
We headed out, the afternoon sun casting the front lawn palm tree’s shadow across the driveway. In the car, Cassy kept one hand on Pitou, buckled beside her. Motherhood at its finest.
The Golden State Arena was mostly empty, left was the maintenance crew and a couple of ops guys wheeling gear across the concrete. The air inside was crisp, echoing faintly with distant clinks and hums.
Cassy lit up even more the moment her skates hit the ice, wobbling forward with determined little strides. My chest did that proud flutter again, the one that sneaks up on you when you watch someone you love do something brave.
After a few laps and plenty of giggles, I guided us to the center ice.
“Uncle Sean,” Cassy beamed. “You forgot the photo!”
I laughed. Of course, she didn’t forget. She was a natural-born memory keeper, already expecting encores.
I pulled out my phone. “Hold Pitou up high. Big smile.”
She raised her toy above her head and grinned so hard her cheeks crinkled. I snapped shots. Center ice, proud five-year-old, stuffed penguin hero. Coach Dazzler moment, no question.
I was learning: kids didn’t need new things all the time; they needed good things again. The repeat, the ritual, the comfort of the known, made it magical.
We skated back to the exit. Her cheeks were flushed, hair peeking out from under her helmet. I felt that reminder again that the best moments in life weren’t the big ones, but the small ones like this, the ones you’d do over and over again.
The ride home was all chatter, Cassy recounting her “moves” as if I weren’t there and she’d won an Olympic medal. I grinned through it until we pulled into the driveway a little after three.
Inside, the house smelled of herbs, vinaigrette, and fresh bread. The delicious aroma assaulted my nostrils. Abby was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, tossing a salad with that “don’t you dare say this was easy” face.
“Skating went well?” she asked.
“She’s ready to compete,” I said, handing Cassy her backpack.
“Well done, baby.” Abby smiled at Cassy, then looked at me. “Dinner’s coming along well. I ordered a few things, made the salad, and there’s fruit chilling. Nothing complicated. You two can help me plate.”
Cassy ran to her room to put her bag away. We washed our hands and helped plate the takeout from the bag on the counter. I stole a piece of bread and earned a mock glare from Abby.
