The house smells like soil and sunscreen and whatever disaster is currently happening in the kitchen.
I watch it all from the terrace, coffee going cold in my hand, while Rose moves through the garden below with the kind of ease that still catches me off guard. She hums to herself as she works, the tune something soft and unrecognizable, fingers brushing leaves like they’re old friends. She’s barefoot, hair pulled into a loose knot, dress smudged with dirt at the hem.
Iris, our eldest, trails after her, chattering about something urgent and probably flower-related. Florian, our youngest, is crouched by the roses, very seriously watering a plant that does not need watering.
This is my life.
Five years of it, layered quietly on top of one another. Late nights spent rocking babies through fevers. Early mornings driving Rose to campus before heading into the city. Her botany textbooks stacked on the dining table, the kids coloring dangerously close to her notes.
She was brilliant at it. Still is.
It still feels strange to think that once, survival meant walls and weapons and never sleeping too deeply. Now it means childproof locks, schedules written in Rose’s neat handwriting, and learning which tantrums can be negotiated and which ones require snacks immediately.
Our son has my hair and her eyes. Our daughter has her mother’s stubbornness and my temper, which is… a problem. They both know exactly where the garden is off-limits and test it daily. They also know I will always come when they call.
I shut my ledger and join them in the garden.
Amber arrives mid-afternoon, sunglasses perched on her head, energy undimmed by time. She sweeps into the garden like she owns the place, scoops one child up without asking, and immediately starts dispensing opinions about my lawn furniture. Which I let go, because she’s my best friend’s wife and also my wife’s best friend.
Besides, she’s got a point. The chairs could do with a makeover.
“You’re spoiling them,” she informs Rose.
“They’re children,” Rose replies serenely.
Amber snorts. “Exactly.”
Rose catches me watching and smiles. She walks up the steps, wipes her hands on her dress, and leans in to steal a kiss that tastes like mint and sunshine.
“Stop staring,” she murmurs.
“I’m married,” I say. “I’m allowed.”
Iris immediately groans. “Boo!”
Florian adds, louder, “Gross!”
Rose laughs and kisses me again just to spite them. Amber applauds from the lawn chair like she’s watching a show.
It’s not the smile she used to give the world when she was running. It’s softer. Unafraid. Rooted.
She is safe here.
Loved.
This garden—it’s where we got married. A small, intimate ceremony. Just close friends and family. Of course, us being us, that meant every Don in New York City plus all of Rose’s girlfriends from the restaurant. Erin, Savannah, Izzy, and of course, her ride-or-die, Amber.
It was simple, just the way we both wanted.
It was perfect.
My reverie breaks when Amber plops down beside Rose and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “So. Postgrad.”
Rose’s eyes light up despite herself. “Fall semester,” she says. “Environmental botany. I’ll be drowning in lab work.”
“You love lab work,” Amber says.
“I love lab work,” Rose agrees. “Though it’s got crazy hours. I worry about the kids missing me.”
