“Well, she feels like she is.” My voice cracks again. “Youcan still go. Just say I’m sick or something—”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” He shakes his head, that familiar stubbornness surfacing in his voice. “I’m not gonna leave you here like this, crying your eyes out the whole day. Easter or not.”
My bottom lip trembles, and I can’t stop the tears this time. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just pulls me in and lets me fall apart against him, his hand moving in slow, gentle strokes across my back until my breathing evens out.
* * *
The porch swing creaks beneath us. Mason’s arm is draped behind me, the both of us tucked beneath one of our heavier blankets, coffee cups steaming in our hands. It’s cold for April—North Dakota doesn’t like to let go of cold too soon.
Mason sets his phone on the little table beside us, the volume turned up just enough to hear the pastor’s voice for the Easter service live stream. I couldn’t bring myself to go to church in person either. Seeing everyone’s faces, hearing the choir…it’s too much.
So here we are. Just us.
When the sermon ends, soft piano music starts playing. The first few notes of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” spill through the phone speaker, and that’s all it takes.
My throat tightens. I stare down at the mug in my hands, the rim trembling just slightly as tears start to pool behind my eyes.
Mason shifts beside me, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing. That’s one of the things I love most about him—he never rushes me to be okay.
I lean into him, my forehead pressing against his shoulder. His sweatshirt smells faintly of coffee and woodsmoke.
“I feel like everyone else is moving forward,” I whisper. “And I’m just…stuck.”
Mason’s quiet for a long moment before he answers, his voice rough around the edges. “You’re not stuck, Meg. You’re just in the middle of the story.”
We sit like that until the song ends, and even though I’m still hurting, I know God’s here, in the waiting, right beside us on this swing.
* * *
I don’t know what time it is, but Maureen’s soft voice pulls me out of sleep. It’s coming from the front door. Something about food. Of course she brought us some.
The last thing I remember, Mason was sitting at the end of the couch, rubbing my feet while a baseball game played quietly on the TV.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table and squint at the screen. Almost one.
I stay still, listening. Her voice drifts through the doorway, gentle and unhurried. Mason’s low tone answers her, quiet enough that I can’t make out what he’s saying. There’s the sound of a grocery bag rustling, the soft snap of Tupperware lids, and then the door closing again.
I wait a few seconds before opening my eyes fully. I hear him set things on the counter, shuffling containers and plastic bags.She probably gave us enough to feed an army, because that’s just her.
Mason’s footsteps are soft as he crosses back to the living room. He pauses at the threshold, and when I turn my head toward him, he’s standing there, sleeves pushed up, his expression soft.
“Mom brought lunch if you’re hungry.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“She knows that.”
I sit up slowly, brushing my hair back and adjusting the hood of my sweatshirt. “Did she ask what was going on?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just didn’t want us to miss out.”
I push the blanket off my legs and follow him into the kitchen. The smells of warm ham, buttery mashed potatoes, and gravy hit first. Then I see the rest—carrots, sweet corn, half a blueberry pie, and those rolls Addison makes that could win awards.
I can’t help but smile. “She really went all out.”
“Are you surprised?” Mason opens the cabinets, pulling out two plates and setting them on the counter.
“Ha, no.” I move beside him, lifting the lid off the container of rolls, steam fogging the air. “She even sent butter.”
