Like they never doubted he was alive.
Like of course he survived. Of course he’s coming home. Why would they think otherwise?
It’s unnerving. And also kind of comforting.
Because if they have that much faith in him, maybe I should, too.
“Those men,” Grandma says, following my gaze. “They’re with you? Always?”
“Yeah.”
“Anton’s people?”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “They’re good men.”
“They are.”
“Loyal.”
“Very.”
“That says something. About him. About the kind of man who inspires that kind of loyalty.”
I look at her. “You know, don’t you? What he does.”
She doesn’t even blink. Just keeps rolling dough. “I know enough.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’re okay with it?”
She sets down the rolling pin. Looks at me. Really looks at me.
“I asked you yesterday if you were happy. You said you felt alive.” She wipes flour from her hands. “That’s not something you fake, Mary-Cat. That’s not something you can force. Either you feel it, or you don’t.”
“I feel it.”
“Then that’s all I need to know.” She picks up the rolling pin again. “As long as you’re safe. As long as you’re choosing this life instead of being trapped in it.”
“I’m choosing it.”
“Good.” She goes back to the dough. “Because that baby needs a mother who knows what she wants. And a father who’ll fight for it.”
My throat tightens. “He will. He is.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not worried.”
Jasper’s watching us from the counter. Unusually quiet.
Then he clears his throat. “So. Your birthday’s in two days.”
“I know.”
“The big three-oh.”
