“It sounds perfect,” she agrees, beaming.
All around us, the town celebrates with more music and more fireworks.
I lean into Aiden’s side, Phoebe tucked between us, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m holding everything together with pieces of myself that barely have sticky sides anymore.
I’m here, chosen and loved, just for being me.
And I’m choosing and loving, right back.
fifty-two
AIDEN
I thoughtthere might be an adjustment period when we came back from Texas—a few days of Chloe resettling after all the hard conversations, maybe.
She would’ve earned them, and more.
But we slid right back into the rhythm we found before “our snowglobe,” as she’s affectionately called our farm, was shaken up.
It’s obviously quieter now, without her brothers or her parents here. But there’s a pleasant hum that I think will be the soundtrack of our life, moving forward.
Bursts of laughter, the click of dishes in the sink, and background noise that switches between the television and music. I love the way Phoebe bursts into random song the second something reminds her of a movie she loves.
But I think what I love most is the way future plans are a non-stop part of our conversations now. Not just between Chloe and me, but between all four of us. Steady plans that involve ideasfor the farm and her photography business. Separate ones and united ones.
When we walked back through the door a few days ago, I think the entire house exhaled, and I understood the feeling.
Now, we’re all seated around the kitchen table, like Mom and Dad did when it was time for important decisions that could afford to be overheard.
Owen’s sitting at the opposite end of the table with his laptop open, one of his legs stretched out in front of him, and his head propped on an elbow.
“We’ve never done Valentine’sanythingbefore Evie,” he says on a sigh.
“That’s the point.” She rolls her eyes. “Chloe, help me out here.”
My wife straightens, like the proud businesswoman she is. “I made a decent living off mini-sessions with my studio. Leak disaster notwithstanding,” she adds, with a chuckle. “People love themed seasons of their kids and their babies. Even on their own, if the idea is fun enough.”
“All the more reason we should try something other than hot chocolate. This one hasn’t stopped talking about all the food offerings at that Ever After place you went to in Texas,” Owen says, gesturing at me.
“You’re only annoyed we didn’t think of it,” I say.
“Well, it’s not like we’ve ever gone to other farms to see what they have to offer,” he answers, shifting in his chair. “To be honest, I don’t know why it never occurred to me.”
Survival. We were too busy surviving losing our parents to think outside the box. That’s why. But I don’t want to point that out right now.
“Maybe that’s a good idea,” Evie says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Maybe we should see how other farms bring inrevenue year-round. It would take some of the pressure off the holiday season.”
“But it’ll create more work.”
“Name one person at this table who wouldn’t be willing to work.” Evie tips her head. “I’ll wait.”
I’m not quite sure what’s happening here, but I’m going to stay out of it. I glance over at Phoebe, who has basically claimed the living room carpet as her favorite coloring space. I can’t hear everything she’s saying, but it’s something about disco balls and how fireworks should be required once a month.
Life through a child’s eyes.
“Anyway,” Chloe says, clearing her throat and drawing everyone’s eyes to her. “We would need to advertise now. Which means we’re already behind on figuring out a set to show off and promo photos for me to tease.”
I’m exercising great restraint not to praise her for owning her ideas and her place here. This is another shift—she’s not earning anything. She’s actively participating in this family, and it cracks my heart open to witness.
