When his name finally echoed through the speakers —George Campbell— Shane was already on his feet.
“THAT’S MY BOY!” he shouted, a smuggled-in air horn blasting loud and proud as Georgie stepped onto the stage, startled and laughing, scanning the crowd until his eyes found us.
He grinned so wide, it was like he couldn’t ask for a single thing in that moment.
My chest ached with the sight.
I clapped and cried and laughed all at once, my hands shaking as Shane cupped them between his, squeezing like he knew exactly what this meant to me. And he did — more than anyone.
That was the thing about us now.
We didn’t have to explain the big feelings. We just held them together.
After the ceremony, we found Georgie in the crush of families and flowers, Shane pulling him into a hug so tight Georgie groaned.
“You’re going to save so many lives,” Shane said roughly, voice thick with pride. “I know it.”
Georgie’s smile softened. “I hope so.”
Two days later, we were home in Tampa, Georgie heading off to enjoy a brief trip with his friends to celebrate making it through med school before they’d all go their separate ways for residency. Shane and I were already making plans to fly to Los Angeles and get Georgie set up in his new apartment when he returned.
But for now, we were atourhome — the one we shared together.
The house greeted us the way it always did, with sunlight spilling through wide windows, the slow sway of palms visible just beyond the glass. We’d bought it together on the intercoastal, a place that felt both expansive and deeply ours. We had open spaces softened by overstuffed furniture, books everywhere, and a record player in the corner with stacks of vinyl we argued over lovingly. It was the kind of house that invited bare feet and long conversations and quiet mornings.
I dropped my bag by the door and sighed.
“I know we had breakfast before the flight, but are you too full for a smoothie?” Shane asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
I laughed. “Never.”
While he worked in the kitchen, I put on a Billie Holiday record and kicked off my shoes, sighing with content at being home. I couldn’t help but wander the halls down to the room we were remodeling, the one we hoped would house a child or two for however long they needed.
We were going to enter the foster care system.
It was something I’d brought up to Shane thinking it might lead to our first argument, that he’d think I was insane for even entertaining the thought. Instead, I’d been met with excitement and joy, with him pulling me in for a hug before launching into all the logistics before I could even finish my initial thought.
We both wanted a family, and we were going to do it our way.
For many reasons, including biological ones, having kids of our own was out of the question. But what mattered to us was that we could make a difference for children when they needed it most. We could have an impact on a life — onmultiplelives — that would have a ripple effect.
There was nothing more powerful than that.
“Okay,” Shane said when I ambled back into the kitchen. He turned to me with two deeply purple smoothies in hand. “I think there’s magic in this one.”
“Oh yeah?” I teased.
One sip, and my eyes widened.
And then I was promptly sent back in time.
The taste dancing on my tongue was a snapshot of 2006, of me and Shane in an old Pontiac, of baby faces and wide-open hearts.
“No,” I breathed. “No, no, no. Shane.” I shook my head, taking another sip that had that same nostalgia laced in it. “How?!”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying and failing to look casual because he was gloating like a sonofabitch.
“It tastes exactly like it,” I whispered. “The Berry Blast from the Smoothie Guy.Exactlylike it.”
