Page 119 of The Woman at the Funeral

“That was quick,” I said when Nico came upstairs to lean in the doorway, watching us with a tender look in his eyes.

“It was just Ezmeray dropping off a lasagna. She had four dogs with her on the way to the groomer.”

“Lasagna sounds good,” I decided. Our freezer was packed with every kind of dish you could imagine. We wouldn’t need to cook for weeks. And by then, more food would replace it. Because when the Costas did community, they did it hard.

This was my first foray into being on the receiving end of it. But while I’d been pregnant, another of the wives had given birth, allowing me to be part of the preparing and delivery of meals to make her life easier during such a precious time.

“I love your family,” I told him for what had to be the millionth time.

“Our family,” he corrected, coming over to lift our now-sleeping son, cradling him in the crook of his arm for a moment before placing him down to reach for me. His arms slid around my lower back, pulling me close.

“Our family,” I agreed, leaning up to press my lips to his.

Nico - 6 years

“It might help if we don’t trample the bushes while we try to get flowers for Mommy,” I suggested to our son who didn’t have a delicate bone in his body. He’d been a bulldozer from the second he learned to crawl.

He was five and all energy, stained clothes, and an almost alarmingly large appetite.

Even as I thought that, he reached into his pocket and produced half a cheese stick of dubious freshness and popped it into his mouth.

Our daughter, on the other hand, was all careful softness. She was three going on thirty with her soulful dark blue eyes and quiet consideration of the world around her.

I had a feeling that she was going to be like her great-grandmother one day, artistic and talented. But with a family that would nurture that skill so she could use it for more than greeting cards for loved ones. If that was what she wanted.

Her brother? Well, his idea of finger painting had been slamming his fist into the paint so it squirted all over.

We weren’t holding our breaths for any masterpieces from him.

“For Mama,” our daughter said, handing me a giant hydrangea head she’d carefully cut with her little kid scissors.

I’d planted the Annabelles in the backyard for our first wedding anniversary, carefully placing them so she could see them from the kitchen window and the primary bedroom.

We were gathering some to put on the table for when I went to pick her and our third baby up from the hospital as soon as Zeno—late as ever—showed up to watch our other two.

To be fair, he’d gotten a lot better with time management (and life management) ever since he’d found the right woman to help figure out the correct systems to make their lives flow more smoothly.

But he would never be someone who showed up on time. Let alone early.

Still, the kids loved their Uncle Zen and his crazy tattoos and funny clothes.

“She’s going to love it,” I assured her, tucking it in with the others I’d already picked.

“Baby brother?” she asked, those big, round eyes making me want to scoop her up and give her a hug.

“Yes, baby brother will love them too,” I assured her.

She’d been very concerned about what the baby would and wouldn’t like. Would he like Goya (her personal best friend in the whole world)? Would her older brother’s loud way of dumping out his toy boxes make the baby cry?

She was taking the role of big sister very seriously. And she reminded me so much of her mother in that way.

Meanwhile, our son wanted to know how long until he could drag the baby around behind his bike. He didn’t love it when we adamantly told him “never.”

Our eldest didn’t remind me of either of us, looks aside. Or even any of my siblings. But there were moments, here and there, when I saw a bit of Matthew in him: the charm, the joy, the complete and utter disregard of consequences.

I wouldn’t lie and say there weren’t times when I missed Matt. Despite the betrayals and the lies, he’d been a huge part of my life for so long.

Besides, I could never truly hate the guy.

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