“‘In the great green room,’” Tessa began, her voice low and gentle, “‘there was a telephone…’”
She pointed to the picture as she read, tapping lightly so Olive’s eyes could track the movement.
“Which doesn’t look like any telephone I’ve seen lately,” Dusty cracked, smiling up at them.
Tessa laughed and continued, “‘And a red balloon.’”
Dusty leaned back and looked at Olive. “That balloon looks like it’s about to get into trouble,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
Tessa smiled despite herself. “‘And a picture of…’ What do you think that is, Olive?”
Silence.
“‘The cow jumping over the moon,’” Dusty finished quietly, pointing.
Tessa paused again, leaving space the way she’d learned to do, just from gut instinct that developed while caring for a little human who did not, under any circumstances, respond with words. Looks, gestures, nods and headshakes, but no speech.
She glanced at Olive, hopeful, searching.
Olive’s eyes stayed on the page and Tessa kept reading.
She noticed the way Olive’s gaze followed her finger, and the way her breathing stayed even, the way her body remained relaxed but alert.
Still, she longed for something—any word from her tiny ward. As much as she told herself not to push, the hope lived there anyway, pressing against her ribs.
As she read, she allowed the weight of the moment to sink in. Reading to Olive, especially with Dusty beside her, felt deeply…domestic. Like something she should have been doing for years—even now, when she was nearly old enough to be a grandmother.
The realization hit slowly, then all at once. She’d never done the parenting thing, unless she counted visits with Kate’s kids when they were little.
She’d always been off chasing a good time, thinking this was the definition of boring and slow. Yet, here it was, anything but boring or slow. Well,Goodnight Moonwasn’t exactly riveting, but hanging on to the hope that Olive would whisper something sure was.
Still, she had never experienced these nightly rituals. These quiet, ordinary moments that stitched a family together over time.
Her brain wandered back to Roman—the child she’d never raised—imagining him as a two-year-old.
She knew she’d made the right choice in giving that little baby to a set of parents who’d longed for one. She had neverdoubted that. But that didn’t erase the ache that came in these quiet moments with Olive.
“‘Goodnight kittens,’” she read. “‘And goodnight mittens.’”
“Have you ever owned mittens, Olive?” Dusty asked, holding out his hand. “We don’t wear them much in Florida.”
Olive stared at the page.
Tessa caught Dusty’s quiet sigh confirming that even his marvelous patience was wearing thin. Didn’t matter—he had top-notch Dad skills, something she added to the growing list of things she really liked about Dusty Mathers.
Tessa pointed to the moon on the page. “Moon,” she said slowly, clearly. “Do you see the moon, sweet Olive?”
She nodded, proving she understood so much.
As the story neared its end, Olive’s body began to soften. She leaned back slightly against the pillow. Her eyes blinked slowly, lids growing heavy. Her breathing deepened, and Tessa watched her alertness give way to sleep.
She finished the book quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“‘Goodnight noises everywhere.’” She closed the book gently and set it on the nightstand. She smoothed the blanket over Olive, tucking it carefully around her small body. Olive’s eyes fluttered, then stilled.
Tessa leaned in.
“Sleep tight, little Olive Oyl,” she whispered, so softly it felt like a secret.
