Whatever the news is, we will weather it together, as a family.
Epilogue
Ten years later
My mom’s round face looks back at me in the mirror.
A tear escapes my eye. I can’t believe how much I look like her when she was in her 40s.
“Tight curls, or waves?”
“Just loose waves, thanks, Mom.”
Mom stands behind me, winding my locks around the wide-barrel curling iron, with a serene smile on her glowing face.
She catches me staring. “Baby, are you okay?”
I nod silently.
One curl done, she gestures with the rod at my reflection, scolding me. “Don’t start crying now. If you cry, I cry, and then we’ll all have to redo our eye makeup, and there’s no time for that.”
May rushes over and hands me a tissue, and I carefully dab under my eyes so I don’t smudge my eyeliner.
“I’m not crying-crying. Just a teeny bit weepy,” I say.
Mom places a hand on her hip. “Well, it’s my wedding day, so you’d better not be crying at all.”
May steps in front of the mirror and looks down at me. “Don’t think about the C-word. Instead, be jealous that Mom’s hair grew back curly and yours is still poker straight.”
I laugh. “So crazy curly!”
Mom shakes her head and curls the next lock of my hair. May looks pretty in a black velvet cocktail dress. Her kids are older now, and have been given the job of ushers for the vow renewal ceremony.
“You’d done a good job with Ashley and Reece,” I say to her. “They’re terrific kids.”
My sister smiles proudly. “Thanks.”
She glances over at the corner of the room, where the eight-year-old Demetria sits reading a children’s fantasy novel. She wears a sharp, tailored suit that matches her older cousins’. Like her father’s, Demetria’s hair has never been cut, and she likes to wear it in a bun to match Grak’s. That girl practically worships her father.
Although Demetria wasn’t born with her father’s green skin, she’s been known to color herself green with markers whenever she’s unsupervised. If that’s the biggest headache I have as a parent, I’ll call it a win.
“And you’ve done great with her, too,” May says, nodding at her niece.
“Thank you.”
And I really mean that. I worry sometimes about Demetria being in school, with her vestigial horns and slightly pointed ears potentially making her a target of mockery. Other kids do have questions, but they soon got over her odd characteristics. Turns out, most kids are a lot more accepting and welcoming than they get credit for.
May gnaws on her freshly painted bottom lip like she has something else she needs to say.
“Grak saved all our asses,” she says. “None of us would be here today, on this farm, with Mom, all of us together, without him. I don’t know how to thank him for that.”
I don’t know what to say.
Not only did the farm do well financially that first Christmas he came, but through word of mouth, Grak has become a huge hit every year since. We made enough to cover the balloon payment on the property that year.
Grak’s astonishing strength and skills have made him a phenomenal handyman, too. Dad insisted on adding Grak to the payroll, but Grak wouldn’t hear of it. But he agreed to being added as co-owner of Allman Family Farm when Dad retired. Thomas and May each own a third, and Grak and I own a third.
Mom and Dad still live in their house. Mom loves having the room for her grandchildren, and Dad can’t bear to live away from these woods.
