Just like that, my son is smiling again.
Relief loosens something in my chest.
I step out and circle to the back of the truck.
In the bed sits Evan’s old wooden cradle.
A family heirloom.Our great-grandfather carved it by hand.
It’s heavy as hell.
I grip the edge and start to slide it toward me, muscles straining.
I almost have it down when powerful hands appear.
Large.Sure.Familiar.
They lift the weight from me like it’s nothing.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
But I do anyway.
And there he stands.
J.T.Lawrence.
Sunlight hitting his broad shoulders.Jaw set.Eyes soft when they land on me.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly.
Not taking over.
Not correcting.
Just helping.
My heart does that stupid, hopeful thing again.
Because he didn’t just show up for the barbecue.
He showed up for the life that comes with me.
And suddenly, for the first time all morning, I’m not just nervous.
I’m steady.
Because he’s here.
Not hovering.Not crowding.Just… here.
“Hi,” I whisper, like we’re alone instead of standing in my brother’s driveway in broad daylight.
“Hello,” he replies, low and warm, like that single word carries weight.
I swallow.
“Shit, that’s heavy.Um, follow me.”
