Per Diane, Silas seems to be doing better now. They're talking to a grief counselor. Healing, slowly but surely.
Jealousy flooded my body when she told me and I hatedmyself for feeling it.
That Silas recognized he needed to change for his daughters and is taking steps to get better and his brother refuses to do the same, or just doesn't see the need.
The most frustrating thing is that it's not something I can force. He needs to see that there's a problem and I had hoped that actually listening to me with a therapist mediating would help.
I can't afford to linger on those thoughts anymore. I'm making changes. I want to change, and if he doesn't, then fine.
I will, however, force him to be a better father to his children.
"Hello," I call out as I walk right into my in-laws' house, smiling as I smell vanilla and cinnamon.
Diane made her monkey bread, and no doubt my Noah went crazy over it. He always loves his grandmother's baked goods, practically feral during our Christmas cookie party.
The foyer is warm and bright, late afternoon light reflecting off the family photos lining the walls.
There's the Christmas portrait from three years ago: me in my husband's lap, the boys cross-legged on the floor, all of us in matching candy cane striped pajamas. Atlas is kissing my cheek while the boys and I grin toward Carrie behind the camera.
The thought that future portraits might not include me pinches my stomach until I feel sick.
Footsteps pound on hardwood and that sound eases the coil in my gut from my earlier phone conversation with Imani and my depressing thoughts about the family photos.
"Mama!"
A ginger blur rockets down the steps and right into my open arms. "I missed you!"
"I missed you," I laugh, squeezing my baby and kissing his little freckled forehead. He beams up at me with a happy smile, his top front teeth gone and the sight of it is so cute, I just want to squeeze him again.
Liam had the bright idea to tie one end of a string to a Nerf dart and the other end to Noah's loose teeth. It worked, and Noah later presented me with two bloody teeth. Liam, smug and triumphant, held his Nerf gun and waited for someone to praise his genius.
Have boys, they said. It'll be fun, they said...
"Where's your brother?"
"Right here," I hear behind me. Liam's teenage voice cracks on the last word, right before the world goes dizzy and I'm off my feet.
"Liam, put me down!" I laugh, not liking the fact that my little boy can lift me now.
He really is his father's child. He sets me down, grinning smugly as Noah belly-laughs.
Your son grows a couple of inches taller than you and thinks he's a big shot. I steady myself, turn, and give Liam the mom look—eyebrow raised, mouth pursed.
His smile falters and turns sheepish. "Sorry, Mama."
Still got it.
Softening, I smile and he walks right into my open arms. I kiss his cheek and ask, "How was your weekend?"
"Mama, we made monkey bread, and I painted a new picture—wanna see?" Noah's excited voice exclaims as he bounces in place.
"Go get it and get your bags!" I tell him as he races up the steps. Turning back to my oldest, I brush a curl away from his face, making a mental note that I need to schedule a haircut for him. "How was it?"
"It was fun," Liam shrugs, trying to keep his tone casual, crossing his arms, and looking so much like his father. The sight of it is bittersweet. "Pop and I watched the Sentinels game, and we had a fire last night. Noah got sick on marshmallows."
"I did not!" Noah yells from the top of the stairs, footsteps thundering as he runs back down to us, huffing and puffing.
"You almost spewed all over Mom-Mom's garden," Liamlaughs, ruffling his brother's hair.
