Page 116 of Came the Closest

“No,” he exclaims. His cheeks are flushed from trying to push me, his lips parted with amusement. “Daddy, don’t go!”

I stop completely. The sudden movement—or lack thereof—sends Milo tumbling into me, and he laughs harder. I steady him and let him take me by the hand to show me his painting, but my thoughts are snagged on that one word.

Daddy.

The adoption has been finalized for over twenty-four hours. Cheyenne and I have discussed extensively how we want to navigate what Milo calls us now, but we haven’t talked to him yet. I’ve been Colt and Cheyenne has been Annie for the last year. It’s natural, and with all the changes in his life, we don’t want to confuse him.

Maybe it’s his use of the word daddy for the first time that brings tears to my eyes when I look at his canvas, or maybe it’s the painting itself. Milo has an attention to detail that Jolene didn’t have at age five. It’s still very much a child’s painting, and I wouldn’t replace his blobs of color for even lines and symmetrical shapes if I could. But the dots of blue for my eyes and the bright yellow stripe on my hand for my ring speak of his deeply observant nature.

One that Cheyenne and I will foster for the rest of our lives. One that also makes me realize that accomplishments aren’t what makes you proud of your child. I’m proud of his ability to create like this, yes, but it doesn’t make me love him more. If he didn’t have that artist’s eye, I wouldn’t love him less.

Milo gazes up at me expectantly, head tipped all the way back. “Do you like it?”

“Milo,” I say around the lump in my throat. “I love it.”

Happiness lights his features—wrinkles his nose, sparkles in his pale blue eyes, pulls the corners of his mouth upward. Dimples that strongly resemble my own crease his cheeks, and he twists his body while holding onto my hand.

In word form, he wants to swim.

And I want to swim with him, just like any other warm night. But not until I address the monumental occurrence from moments ago.

“Hey, Captain,” I say, lowering to my knee. I squeeze his hand and slouch just enough to be eye level with him. “Can I ask you a good question real quick?”

Specification of question type shouldn’t necessarily be needed, but after learning of how hotheaded Vincent Pierre asked all questions, it’s something we’ve incorporated. Even when he’s done something wrong or disobeyed, we don’t want him to feel anything less than safe with us.

Milo nods.

“You just…” I pause, trying to determine the best way to phrase the question. I need to keep it understandable for a five-year-old, but I don’t want to sound accusatory. “You called me Daddy a couple minutes ago. I’m just wondering if that is what you’d like to call me instead of Colt?”

“Oh.” Tucking his cheek into his shoulder, he shrugs. “Aren’t you my daddy now?”

Swallowing, I nod. “Yeah, buddy. I am.”

“Then I want to call you my daddy ‘cause I want you to be my daddy.”

I feel like releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay, then. You can call me Daddy.”

He tilts his head inquisitively. “Is Annie my mommy?”

As he asks the question, Indi and Cheyenne glide their paddleboards into view from around the point. I let my gaze linger on my wife for a moment. When she throws her head back, laughing, she nearly topples off the board, and I smile.

“Yeah,” I tell Milo, shifting my attention back to him. “Annie is your mommy now, too.”

“Can I call her that?”

Emotion lodges itself in my throat. I pull Milo into my arms and kiss his blond curls. “She would love to be called Mommy, sweetheart.”

More than he might ever know.

It’s been a year since we started folding towels on the sofa together, and we still fold them differently. We could easily fold them my way or hers, but I go through to refold mine to match hers, and it steals us a few more minutes together. My theory is that we can’t be interrupted if we’re doing a household chore.

Tonight’s not any different. Except that, in some ways, it is. Milo is no longer my half-brother under my guardianship, and he’s not my son, he’s our son.

“You know,” Cheyenne says. The towels are long ago folded, and she leans back on the sofa. My head rests in her lap while lightning flashes across an onyx sky beyond the living room windows. “You haven’t said much about yesterday.”

“About the court hearing?”

Her fingers sift through my hair, and she shakes her head softly. “No. About the trip to Maine.”

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