Page 78 of Saving it with My Best Friend's Brother

“Like you’re not,” I managed, widening our circle to include her.

Mom drew back just enough to see us clearly, her hands trembling as they framed our faces. “Look at you both. I’ve missed so much.” Her fingers traced the story of years in the lines around Taylor’s eyes, the stubble on my jaw—changes time had written while she watched from shadows.

“But you saw it all, didn’t you?” Taylor bounced Chad gently as he stirred against her shoulder. “All these years?”

“Every moment I could.” Mom touched Taylor’s cheek, then reached for Chad with questioning eyes. “May I?”

Van transferred his son to his grandmother’s arms with careful grace. Mom holding Chad, her first grandchild, filled me with a sweet ache. She swayed with the same gentle rhythm I remembered from my childhood.

“He has the Miller’s eyes,” she murmured, tracing Chad’s tiny features with reverent fingers. The morning light caught the moisture on her cheeks.

“And the Miller stubbornness,” Van added, making laughter echo off book-lined walls that had witnessed generations of family moments.

“Katherine Miller, professional baby whisperer.” Taylor teased as Chad settled instantly, tiny fingers claiming his grandmother’s thumb.

“I’ve had practice.” Mom’s eyes found mine over Chad’s downy head, memories shimmering between us. “Watching you with the kids at your baseball clinics. You’re so good with them, Hunter. Just like your father was.”

“I tried to make him proud.” The confession scraped raw from my throat.

“Oh, baby.” Her free hand found mine, warm and sure despite the years between us. “He was always proud. So am I.”

Morning quiet wrapped around us as we shared stories, filling in blank spaces with love and understanding. Mom told us about watching from afar, working with the FBI, and never being more than a few hours’ drive from our lives. The old clock marked each revelation, each healing moment with steady ticks.

“The hardest part,” she adjusted Chad’s blanket with practiced hands, “was not running to you in difficult moments. Your championship loss, Hunter. When Grams died. Taylor and Van’s wedding.” Each memory trembled in her voice.

“All this time,” I watched the sunlight dance across book spines, “right at the edges of our lives.”

“Protecting us,” Taylor leaned into Van’s steady presence, “like you always did.”

Mom’s smile turned soft as she looked between us. “I see how you protect each other now. Your own little family. And growing...” Her eyes sparked, knowing warmth my way. “That Horton girl... she’s special.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “Mom...”

“What?” She bounced Chad with natural ease, his baby sounds filling quiet corners. “The way you look at her... it’s how your father used to look at me. Like she’s the answer to every question you never thought to ask.”

“They’re disgustingly adorable.” Taylor nudged my shoulder. “You should see them working together. Like they share one brain.”

Van chuckled, drawing Taylor closer. “Like someone else I know.”

“My children,” Mom’s smile included Van, who’d been family since baseball diamond days, “all grown up, all in love. All I ever wanted was your happiness.”

“We are,” I assured her, truth settling warm in my chest. “Especially now.”

A gentle knock broke the moment. Claire stood in the doorway, professional but apologetic, as the scent of coffee drifted in with her.

“Sorry, but the Historical Society board arrived early. They need signatures...”

“Go,” Mom squeezed my hand, her touch familiar as sunrise. “We have time now. All the time in the world.”

Taylor’s stories about Chad’s birth and Van’s proud papa commentary followed me down the hallway, the sounds of family whole and healing echoing off pine walls.

The Historical Society board filled Pine Haven’s conference room, skepticism melting into impressed nods as Amelia presented restoration plans. I watched from the back, content to see her shine in morning light streaming through newly repaired windows.

“The community center will focus on environmental education,” she traced blueprints spread across the antique table, her mother’s bracelet catching light as she gestured. “Teaching the next generation to protect what makes this valley special.”

“Just like your mother,” a board member said softly, respect warming his voice.

The comment caught Amelia off guard briefly, but she recovered with grace, her smile softening like morning frost. Through the window, Michael coordinated volunteers, making amends in practical ways. Morning sun stretched shadows across grounds where generations had built memories.

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