She inhales deeply through her nose, nodding. “Yes!” she responds with childlike wonder. “Yes, please.”
“Good,” I say, leaning back into my chair and bringing both hands around my mug, soaking in its warmth as I take in the view of both of my parents contentedly eating their breakfast across from each other. “A friend of ours is going to come by at some point. He wants to paint with you, if that’s okay.”
“A friend…” Dad repeats curiously, swallowing a forkful of eggs as he reaches for his coffee. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
I nearly shut him down,nearlycorrect him, but then I see the smirk he buries into his own mug before a nice, long sip. The subtle pride in his eyes that cannot be mistaken for anything but just that.
“You wanted me to get a life,” I mumble, stealing the toast from his plate. “Remember?” I say between bites.
“Andlifelooks rather fun,” he says, snatching back his toast. “I like life…” he adds, taking a gargantuan bite. “Life fixed my sign and speaks my mother tongue.”
“Mother tongue?” I ask, giggling. “You spoke five words of Russian myentirechildhood and I’m fairly certain they were just swear words you didn’t want me repeating.”
“Your babushka, God rest her soul, would throw a scalding-hotdranikiat my head if she heard you say that.” He sits straighter in his chair, smiling smugly. “I was agoodRussian boy, tempted away from my culture by a Welsh witch!”
Mom laughs, sipping her orange juice. “She did like to call me that.”
I reach for his plate again, helping myself to the last piece of toast. “Anyways, you can likelifeall you want, but he’s probably going to leave soon. So don’t get too attached,” I tease.
“Maybe he’ll be persuaded to stay by a second-generation Welsh witch like I was,” Dad says, wagging his eyebrows. “Or maybe you should go with him.”
“Mom didn’t have to doanythingto convince you to stay. Right, Mom?” I ask, patting her wrist on the table. “You knew how to charm Dad without trying, didn’t you?”
“He was easy,” she responds.
“See?” I gloat.
“Did you invitelifeto your party?” Dad asks me.
“No,” I say, standing to make my own breakfast. “Because Ispecificallyrecall saying there wouldn’t be a party this year.”
“It’s your twenty-fifth, darling!” As soon as he speaks, we both check in with Mom to make sure that announcement didn’t startle her. Once we realize she’s off in her own world, staring into her cup of juice, Dad continues. “That is a birthday worth celebrating.”
“I said no,” I repeat. “No,” I warn as he smiles apologetically. “Dad, seriously, no…” I add when he places his hands under his chin like the innocent cherub he isnot.
“Just a few dozen people, an extravagant triple-layer cake John and I designed together, and some live music played by yours truly…nothing too much.”
“No, we wouldn’t want to be too much, would we?” I reply.
“You’re my only daughter!”
My toast pops out of the toaster and lands on my plate as I turn over my shoulder to glare at him. “You’re a menace.” I grab the plate, a knife, and the butter on the counter, and make my way back to the table, enjoying the feeling of normalcy we don’t often get to experience these days. If Mom wasn’t rocking in her chair, this would be a typical scene from a typical household. I can settle for nearly normal.Nearlyperfect.
I text Milo after my first bite.
Prue: Mom is in great spirits. Come over whenever is best for you.
When he doesn’t immediately respond, as he had earlier, I read my message over again and start to worry. I’ve never been excellent at niceties, as Milo was quick to point out. My father told me it’s because I’m otherwise preoccupied, my mind elsewhere, and that I need to try to slow down. My mother practiced that with me, kept me grounded and present when my imagination beckoned and seemed a much safer place to venture off to.
It’s hard to feel present these days. Hard not to feel like I’m moving from one part of the daily routine onto the next and missing the moments in between. That’s why mornings like this feel so sacred—the three of us sitting around a table in our pajamas, as if there’s nothing to pull us away.
Lately, I’ve been trying to avoid the fickle feeling of hope where I can. I try not to imagine better scenarios or realities or fixes or cures. But, even still, I cannot help but feel like today is the start of something better. That we’re turning over a new leaf as the ones outside of the house begin to crisp and fall.
It’s difficult to admit, but Dad was right. Just one day after accepting some help, we’re already in a better place. Which, subsequently, means Milo is partially to thank too for this happy, hopeful morning.
Prue: And thank you.
I check my texts after I get Mom some more toast…nothing.
