“My legs were proportional to my body.”
“Your legs were tiny. Like a little elf.”
“I was seven.”
“A tiny seven-year-old elf who wouldn't leave me alone.”
Beth laughed, but there was something underneath it, something that wavered. “I just wanted to be wherever you were. You made everything feel safe.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the teasing that had preceded them. Christopher felt something shift in his chest.
“Beth…”
“No, let me say this.” She took a breath. “When you went overseas, I was terrified. Every day. Every single day, I was scared that something would happen to you and I wouldn't be there. I wouldn't be able to help. I wouldn't be able to do anything except get a phone call and fall apart.”
“You never told me that.”
“Of course I didn't. You had enough to worry about.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And then you came home, and you were broken, and I still couldn't help. I could write you letters and make you laugh and sit with you on your bad days, but I couldn't fix it. I couldn't make it better.”
“You did make it better. You came to Captiva and made me feel better. You made it survivable.”
“That's not the same thing as healing you.”
“It's exactly the same thing.” Christopher reached out and took her hand, the way he had when they were children crossing the street together. “You want to know what got me through?Over there, and when I came back? It wasn't therapy. It wasn't medication. It was knowing that somewhere in the world, my little sister was writing me letters about absolutely nothing. About the weather and the neighbors and what she had for lunch. Normal things. Small things. Things that reminded me that life was still happening, even when I felt like mine had stopped.”
Beth's tears were falling freely now. “I didn't know what else to do.”
“You did exactly right. You always have.” He squeezed her hand. “And now you have two babies who are going to need exactly that. Someone who shows up. Someone who makes the ordinary things feel important. That's what you do, Beth. That's your superpower.”
She laughed through her tears. “My superpower is writing boring letters?”
“Your superpower is making people feel seen. Making them feel like they matter.” He pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. “Those twins are lucky. Gabriel's lucky. I'm lucky.”
“You're moving fifteen hundred miles away.”
“I'm moving to the same island where Mom lives. You can visit anytime.”
“With two newborns?”
“Okay, maybe not next week. But soon.” He released her and stepped back, keeping hold of her shoulders. “This isn't goodbye. You know that, right? This is just the next chapter. We're still us. We're still going to talk every week and argue about stupid things and send each other memes that nobody else thinks are funny.”
“Your meme game has really declined since Eloise was born.”
“I'm a tired father. Cut me some slack.”
“Never.” Beth smiled, wobbly but real. “I'm going to hold you to an impossibly high standard forever.”
“I wouldn't expect anything less.”
They stood for another moment under the maple tree, the house rising behind them. Two siblings who had grown uptogether, who had protected and annoyed and loved each other in equal measure, who were now building separate lives that would always be connected.
“Hey,” Beth said softly. “Remember what you said last night? About home being people, not places?”
“Yeah.”
“You're my home, Chris. You always have been. No matter where either of us lives.”
Christopher felt his throat tighten. “You're going to make me cry in front of everyone.”
