Because this is what matters. These three humans. This moment.
Grant catches my eye over Clara's head and winks. My stomach flips like I'm twenty-four again, sitting beside him on a plane to Florence, trying not to notice how good he smells.
Some things never change.
He finishes the book, and Clara immediately demands, "Again!"
"How about we clean up the blocks first?" Grant suggests diplomatically. "Grandpa David will be here soon."
Both twins react to that. James claps his hands. Clara slides off Grant's lap and toddles toward the blocks.
"Ganpa!" James announces to the room at large.
My father's relationship with the twins is uncomplicated in a way his relationship with me will never be. He's patient with them. Playful, even. Gets down on the floor to build block towers and makes silly voices when he reads to them.
It's healing and painful in equal measure. Watching him be the grandfather I wish he'd been as a father.
But I'm learning to sit with that complexity.
We spend the next twenty minutes on cleanup duty—or rather, attempting cleanup while two toddlers enthusiastically "help" by taking out toys as fast as we put them away.
By the time the doorbell rings, the living room looks marginally less like a disaster zone.
Grant goes to answer it while I corral the twins. They're bouncing with excitement, James chanting "Ganpa, Ganpa," and Clara trying to escape my arms to run to the door.
I hear my father's voice before I see him. That distinctive gruff timbre that used to make me flinch.
It doesn't anymore. Mostly.
He appears in the doorway, and he looks—older. Softer around the edges. He's carrying a bag from the twins' favorite bakery.
"There are my grandchildren," he announces, and both twins shriek with delight.
I set Clara down, and she toddles toward him as fast as her little legs will carry her. James is right behind her.
My father kneels down and lets them crash into him.
"How are my favorite troublemakers?" He produces two cookies from the bag, and the twins accept them with grabby hands and soon-to-be chocolate-smeared grins.
Grant clears his throat. "Hi, David."
"Grant." The exchange is stiff but not hostile. They've achieved a kind of armed truce. Cordial for my sake and the twins', even if they'll never be friends again.
Some things can't be repaired. Only accepted.
My father's eyes find mine. "Emma."
"Dad." I cross to him, let him pull me into a brief, awkward hug. "Thanks for coming."
"Wouldn't miss it." He pulls back, studying my face. "You look tired."
"Iamtired. I have twins and I'm launching a major product line next quarter."
Something that might be pride flickers across his face. "I saw the press release. Bergdorf's. That's—that's significant, Emma."
"It is." I hold his gaze. "We're projecting a forty percent growth year over year."
"You should think about expanding internationally. Europe, maybe. I have some contacts in?—"
