“Grandma said stop.”
Marcus continued turning the screw.
“Tell Grandma I’m almost done.”
Sophie turned toward the kitchen.
“He said he’s almost done.”
Camille shouted from inside:
“That means twenty minutes!”
Marcus smiled.
Jordan shook his head.
“You two have been married what, forty years?”
“Long enough to translate.”
The heater clicked.
A flame appeared.
Marcus leaned back proudly.
“There.”
Jordan stared.
“You turned the gas valve on.”
Marcus frowned.
“That was part of the repair.”
“It was off.”
“Exactly.”
Jordan laughed.
For a moment Marcus saw the boy who had once sat on the patio with a basketball between his knees, asking whether Marcus wanted to be his father.
That conversation had happened more than thirty years earlier.
Jordan rarely thought about it now.
Marcus did.
Parents store moments children move past.
He looked at Jordan’s face.
“You okay?”
Jordan blinked.
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked weird.”
“You’re rude.”
“Genetic.”
“Not technically.”
Marcus smiled.
“Close enough.”
Jordan’s expression softened.
Close enough.
That phrase once would have frightened him.
He had spent childhood worrying that step meant temporary.
Partial.
Conditional.
Now he used it as affection.
They stood.
Jordan offered a hand.
Marcus considered refusing.
Then took it.
Getting older had taught him something pride never had.
Accepting help does not erase competence.
Inside, the house was loud.
Camille and Marcus had moved years earlier into a smaller single-story home, but every holiday seemed to test its legal occupancy.
Children ran through rooms.
Someone dropped a plastic cup.
A dog barked.
Eli argued with Daniel about whether garlic bread was burning.
“It’s caramelizing.”
“It’s black.”
“Flavor.”
“It’s carbon.”
Maya entered from the hallway carrying a stack of plates.
“Dad, sit.”
“I just sat outside.”
“You were crouching.”
“That counts.”
“No.”
Marcus stared at her.
“You sound like your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not praise.”
“I’m taking it.”
Maya kissed his cheek.
Even at forty-three, she still did that casually.
Marcus never took it for granted.
Not after everything.
Not after the day she stood beside a closed suitcase asking whether he had changed his mind about her.
He sometimes wondered whether parents ever stop seeing all the ages their children had been at once.
Maya was a scientist.
A wife.
A mother.
A department director at a marine research institute.
She had testified before Congress about coastal restoration.
She had once spent six weeks tracking turtle nesting patterns through storms.
Still, when Marcus looked at her, he could also see the nine-year-old girl with a light-blue cardigan and tears she was trying not to let fall.
He had learned not to treat her like that girl.
Seeing is different from parenting.
“Where’s Evan?” Marcus asked.
“Picking up my mother-in-law.”
“Late?”
“Her flight was delayed.”
Camille looked over.
“Is she coming for dinner?”
“Yes.”
Camille immediately began counting chairs.
Marcus noticed.
He smiled.
“What?”
Camille pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“You’re counting.”
“I am making sure we have enough seats.”
“Family tradition.”
She rolled her eyes.