Page 13 of Open Arms

“Good choice.” And just like that, I was accepted into Abby’s world—a place where sorrow seemed to have no foothold.

We made our way back to the kitchen, where Mason stood ladling out steaming chicken and dumplings into three bowls. He looked up, a smile warming his face. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” I confessed. The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a home-cooked meal, and the smell alone was enough to make my stomach perform somersaults.

“Dig in,” he said, setting a bowl in front of me with a flourish that made me chuckle.

“Looks amazing,” I complimented, already spooning a generous helping into my mouth. The flavors danced across my tongue, rich and comforting.

“I make this at least once a month,” he shared, pride lacing his words. “Abby here is my official taste tester.”

“Best job ever,” Abby declared, attacking her own bowl with gusto that only a six-year-old could muster.

“Seconded,” I murmured, savoring another bite.

The conversation flowed as easily as the chicken and dumplings disappeared from our plates. We talked about mundane things—the weather, the quirks of living in a small town, and Abby’s latest escapade involving a frog and her teacher’s desk. Laughter came easily, and I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of their family life.

“Chloe, did you know Daddy can sing?” Abby piped up between giggles, eyes alight with mischief.

“Abby,” Mason warned playfully, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed him.

“Really? What do you sing?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.

“Only the classics,” he joked, but there was a hint of a dare in his voice. “And only when someone else joins me.”

“Maybe after dessert,” I teased back, feeling bold in the warmth of their company.

“Deal,” he agreed, and we shook on it, sealing my fate.

Abby clapped, delighted by our exchange. “This is the best dinner ever.”

As laughter once again filled the room, I realized that, for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of belonging. It was nice. Natural.

The clink of silverware on ceramic was the only sound for a moment, a brief interlude in the night’s easy chatter. I glanced up from my nearly empty plate, catching Mason’s eye. He’d been quiet, watching Abby animatedly explain her last riding lesson with an attentiveness that made my chest tighten.

“Your turn,” he said suddenly, nodding at me. “Must be stories you’ve got hidden up your sleeve, Chlo.”

“Stories?” I echoed, stalling as I fiddled with my napkin. “Well, I’m not sure they’re as entertaining as Abby’s.”

“Try me,” Mason challenged, a playful glint in his gray eyes softening the dare.

I took a steadying breath and started with the easy bits—the childhood memories of lemonade stands and hide-and-seek games that felt safe enough. But as Mason listened, his gaze steady and encouraging, the words began to flow more freely.

“Once . . . once I built this ridiculous fort out of cardboard boxes.” A chuckle escaped me. “It took over the entire living room. My mom—she didn’t even get mad. She crawled in and we had a picnic right there amid all the chaos.”

“Sounds like a good mom,” Mason murmured, and there it was—that tug at my heartstrings, the understanding of love lost.

“Yeah, she was.” The admission hung between us, heavy yet somehow freeing.

“Abby here wants to build a treehouse this summer. Don’t you, jellybean?”

“Uh-huh!” Abby nodded vigorously. “And you can help us, Chloe! You must be super good at building forts!”

“Treehouses are a bit more complicated than cardboard forts,” I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Mason said with a confidence that was infectious.

“Right,” I agreed, surprising myself with the ease of it. It felt natural, this back-and-forth, like breathing or the steady rhythm of a horse’s gait.

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