Ordinary, boring, beautiful life.
Tildie shows up at my door on a Thursday afternoon with a bag full of fabric samples and a manic gleam in her eye.
"We're planning the nursery," she announces, pushing past me into the room. "I've been researching color palettes, and I think we should go with something gender-neutral since you don't know what you're having yet. Sage green is very in right now. Or maybe a soft yellow? What do you think about animals? I saw this adorable woodland theme with little foxes and deer and?—"
"Tildie." I hold up my hands, laughing. "Breathe."
She stops mid-sentence, takes a dramatic breath, then grins. "Sorry. I get excited. Ruger says I have two speeds: asleep and hurricane."
"He's not wrong."
We settle on the bed, fabric samples spread between us.
Tildie holds up a swatch of pale green against the light, tilting her head critically.
"This one.Thisis the one. It's calming but not boring, you know? And it'll work for a boy or a girl."
"I like it," I admit. "But Tildie, you don't have to do all this. The baby doesn't even have a room yet. We're still in Garrett's?—"
"Your room," she corrects firmly. "It's your room too. And we'll figure out the nursery situation. Ruger's already talking about converting the storage space at the end of the hall. It's got good light, and it's right next to you guys, so you can hear the baby at night until we get some trailers or cabins built closer to the clubhouse."
I stare at her. "Ruger's talking about that?"
"Ruger talks about a lot of things when it comes to you and Bloodhound." She sets down the fabric and looks at me seriously. "You know this club is your family, right? Like, actually your family. Not just words. We take care of each other. That's what we do."
My throat tightens. "I'm still getting used to that."
"I know. It took me a while too." She scoots closer, tucking her legs under her. "When I first came here, I was a mess. Running from a bad situation, no money, no plan. Slowly I just... became part of things. It wasn't dramatic. It was just people showing up for me, day after day, until I realized I belonged."
"How long did it take? To feel like you belonged?"
"Honestly?" She considers the question. "A few months. Maybe longer. There were days I still felt like an outsider, like everyone was just waiting for me to screw up and prove I didn't deserve to be here. But those days got fewer and further between. And eventually, I woke up one morning and realized this was home. Really home. Not just a place I was staying."
I think about my own journey.
The years of addiction.
The times I disappeared.
The bridges I burned and the people I hurt.
If Tildie—who came here with a clean slate—took a year to feel like she belonged, how long will it take me?
"You're thinking too hard again," Tildie says, poking my arm. "I can see it on your face."
"Sorry. Bad habit."
"Here's the thing about belonging." She picks up another fabric swatch, this one a soft butter yellow. "It's not about earning it. It's not about proving yourself. It's about showing up. That's it. You just keep showing up, and eventually, the belonging happens on its own."
"That sounds too simple."
"Most true things are." She holds up the yellow fabric. "What do you think? Backup option if we can't find enough of the green?"
I take the fabric from her, running my fingers over the soft cotton. "I think it's perfect."
We spend the next hour looking at samples, debating themes, laughing at the increasingly ridiculous options Tildie pulls up on her phone.
By the time she leaves, my face hurts from smiling.
