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“Go before I start yelling again.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I can’t take another night like this.”
He nodded. “You won’t.”
The officer cleared his throat near the door. “Ma’am. I’m Nate. I’m sorry for the fear. This was Grant’s idea.”
Sarah pointed at him without looking. “Go before I start yelling again.”
Nate gave a quick nod and disappeared.
The room exhaled.
Grant sat beside me, still in uniform.
Jason clapped his hands once, like he could reset the whole night. “Okay. Food. Now.”
Mark grabbed plates. Caleb lifted warmers. Eliza handed me water like I’d just run a race.
Sarah hovered, then finally said, “Sit. You sit.”
So I sat. Grant sat beside me, still in uniform, looking like he wasn’t sure he deserved a chair.
I nudged him with my elbow. “Eat, Officer Trouble.”
Mark tried to cut the cake neatly and failed.
He gave a shaky laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
As we ate, the tension loosened. Mark tried to cut the cake neatly and failed. Jason told a story that made no sense and somehow made everyone laugh, anyway.
Sarah leaned toward me and whispered, “I really am sorry.”
“I know,” I said. “Just don’t let ‘busy’ turn into ‘gone.'”
Her eyes shone. “Okay.”
His shoulders sagged and he smiled.
Later, when the balloons started drooping, Grant leaned in.
“My graduation ceremony is next week. I saved you a seat.”
“Next week,” I repeated.
He nodded, proud and nervous at the same time. “Will you come?”
I looked at him. My wild one. My hardest one. My son in a uniform, trying.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
One by one, they nodded.
His shoulders sagged and he smiled.
I looked down the table at all six of them. “Listen.”
They quieted.
“No more disappearing,” I told them. “Not on birthdays. Not on random Tuesdays. Not when it’s convenient.”
One by one, they nodded.
Grant covered my hand with his.
“Deal,” Mark said.
“Deal,” Sarah said.
“Deal,” Eliza whispered.
“Deal,” Caleb said.
Jason chimed in, serious. “Deal.”
Grant covered my hand with his. “Deal,” he said softly. “And I’ll prove it.”
But for one night, finally, I wasn’t alone.
I squeezed his fingers.
The candles on the cake weren’t the ones I lit at home. Those had melted down while I waited. These were new. And when my kids sang loud, off-key, and ridiculous, the sound filled the room the way it used to.
A loud house. A table that wasn’t empty. Not perfect. Not the past. But for one night, finally, I wasn’t alone.