Then weekends.
The first ski trip to Tony’s uncle’s place in Vermont — I could still see their faces pulling into the driveway. Silence. Awe. Mark muttering,Holy shitunder his breath like he’d stepped into a brochure.
Bonfires at night. Snowmobiles lined up like toys. Skiing all day, then pointing out the snow-bunny bars after dark.
Mark hooking up with a woman who turned out to be a divorcee in her forties.
He swore off ski bars forever after that.
I laughed out loud now, the sound echoing down the freshly painted hall.
Patriot’s Day bar crawls. St. Paddy’s Day chaos. Green beer, bad decisions, stories that got better every year.
Christening ARTEMIS when Tony and I finally finished her — champagne spraying, Beth smashing the bottle against the hull like she’d been born to do it. Introducing them to Tony’s friends, watching the lines blur until it was one big group, no titles, no hierarchy.
Somewhere along the way, they stopped being my team.
They became… mine.
Family, in that adult way you don’t plan for.
I set the hammer down and leaned against the wall, sweat cooling on my back, hands rough and aching in a way that felt earned.
Ma was in the kitchen, humming to herself, packing up leftovers like she had somewhere important to be.
She did.
The library.
I was going back to the city soon — back to meetings and deadlines and the life I’d built — but I wasn’t leaving everything behind.
I’d done what I came to do here.
Fixed what needed fixing.
Put something solid under her feet.
And waiting for me in Boston wasn’t just work.
It was people who’d grown into my world the same way I’d grown into theirs.
I picked up my phone and finally checked it.
Three messages.
All some version of the same thing.
We’ve got this.
Take care of your mom.
See you soon.
I smiled, slid the phone back into my pocket, and went to help Ma set the table.
Because family wasn’t just where you came from.
Sometimes, it was where you were going back to.
