I’m no longer the young girl trapped in a cage. I’m now a woman who’s no longer afraid.
And married to the love of my life.
My son, who’s eight now, tilts his head back to stare at the house. “This is where you lived?” His fingers tighten around mine, a protective gesture he definitely learned from his father.
My daughter is two, and stubborn as sin, lets out a delighted squeal from Lorenzo’s arms and points at the vines crawling up the columns.
“Jungle?” she announces.
Lorenzo shifts her higher against his chest.
“It’s not a jungle.” I laugh.
Lorenzo’s mouth curls into a grin. “Just no one took care of it.” His eyes sweep the property. “Good thing Mommy likes living in the underworld, or she’d have to clean this mess.”
My son blinks. “Dad, what’s the underworld?”
Lorenzo’s expression doesn’t change, but I know he wants to laugh. Good luck coming up with something to say.
“It’s where people go when they don’t eat their vegetables,” he answers with absolute calm.
My son’s eyes widen. “That’s real?”
“Terrifyingly,” Lorenzo confirms, shifting our daughter again as she attempts to gnaw on his jacket zipper. “Eat your broccoli.”
My daughter (who is apparently my husband’s daughter) chooses violence and bites his shoulder through the fabric.
Lorenzo doesn’t even flinch. He just stares down at her with the resigned patience of a man who’s survived assassins.
“Ah,” he playfully responds, voice thick with fake tragedy. “I’ve been stabbed.”
She giggles.A future criminal in the making.
I press my lips together, trying not to smile. It doesn’t work. The smile creeps in anyway. These kids will always have me wrapped around their fingers.
We keep walking through the garden until we find what I’m looking for: the boathouse.
Despite everything, it still stands.
It shouldn’t.
But somehow, it’s weathered all the storms.
Like us.
We open the door and step inside. As soon as I’m inside, I’m transported back through time to earlier days and first kisses.
I walk straight to the wall, reaching my hand out when I find what I’m looking for.
My fingers stop before I even touch it. The carved initials are faded but still visible, a wound that never fully healed.
V + L
Crooked. Messy.
Cut into the wood deep.
To last a lifetime.
