The words hit me square in the chest. Being taken care of. That’s what we’ve been doing all week, isn’t it? Taking care of her. Taking care of each other.
Being pack.
“Well,” Cole says, breaking the weighted moment with his usual timing, “if we’re sharing family food traditions, one of my dads makes the world’s worst meatloaf.”
Sierra blinks, then laughs. “Worst?”
“Aggressively terrible. Like, I’m pretty sure it’s classified as inedible in at least three states.”
“Then why does he keep making it?” Jalen asks.
“Because he loves it. Everyone else suffers through it once a month because it makes him happy.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” Sierra says.
“It’s horrifying. The man puts raisins in it.”
“No,” Dax says flatly.
“Yes. Raisins. In meatloaf.”
The conversation dissolves into a debate about the worst foods our families have inflicted on us, and I watch Sierra light up as she listens to us.
By the time we finish eating, the sun has fully set outside, and the house has taken on that cozy evening feeling. Warm lights, full bellies, the kind of contentment that makes you want to settle in and stay.
“I don’t want to move,” Sierra announces, slumping back in her chair. “Ever. I’m living here now.”
“You’re living at the table?” Cole asks.
“Yes. Bring me snacks periodically and I’ll be fine.”
“What about sleeping?”
“I’ll sleep at the table.”
“Sierra.”
“What? It’s a good table. Very sturdy.”
I’m smiling despite myself. “How about a compromise? We clean up the kitchen, and then we make the living room extremely comfortable for the evening.”
“Define ‘extremely comfortable,’” Sierra says, perking up.
“Blankets. Pillows. A nest situation on the floor.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the word ‘nest,’ but I can see interest spark. “Keep talking.”
“We haven’t built a proper pillow fort yet,” Jalen says, catching on to where I’m going. “That feels like an oversight.”
“A pillow fort,” Sierra repeats slowly.
“Unless you’d rather spend the evening at the table,” I say.
She’s already standing up. “Absolutely not. Pillow fort immediately.”
The speed at which she abandons her earlier commitment to table-living makes everyone laugh, but we’re all moving too. Clearing plates, loading the dishwasher.
“Living room,” I direct once the kitchen is clean. “Bring every pillow and blanket you can find.”
