My heart tries to throw itself at both of them while my body has an instinctive need to leap to her side and make sure he doesn’t bowl her over.
But she absorbs the impact like she does this a million times a day.
Which she probably does.
While I haven’t been here.
“Oh, did you pet the kitty?” she asks, a real smile curving her pink lips for the first time since I knocked on the front door.
“It dick me, mama!”
“It licked you?”
“Uh-huh. Unka Deo! Titty dick me!”
“Did you lick the kitty back?” Theo asks.
“Yep!” Bash sticks his tongue out and mimics licking.
Emma shoots Theo a look.
Theo grins and goes back to putting hamburgers on the grill.
And I look back at a little boy who’s staring at me with my own eyes.
The wordhidies in my throat, right under that rock of surprise and joy and fear and adoration and discomfort that’s making it hard to swallow.
Again.
“Mama, who dat?” he says.
“That’s Mama’s friend, Jonas,” Emma replies, still down on his level, one hand tucked around his belly while he leans against her.
This is who she was meant to be.
Not the lost, hurt bride I found in Fiji.
Not the warrior princess I found in her backyard, who appeared again when she tracked me down to lay out the terms under which I could meet my son.
She’s meant to be happy. With a big family. Siblings—biological and found—and kids and joy in the little things.
She glows here.
A ghost of a smile still hovers on her lips, but her eyes—those eyes are on full alert.
And they shouldn’t have to be.
I open my mouth.
Try to sayhiagain.
Fail.
Miserably.
Is that the first thing I want to say to my son?Hi?
Not that I’ll be telling him he’s my son today. Emma’s instructions were clear, and I’d prefer to find a way into their lives that doesn’t involve the lawyers.
