Page 112 of Altius
The fatherly show of machismo only encouraged Ethan to pick on Wyatt even more. It continued until Morgan shot a sharp look at Ethan over the tops of her glasses.
“Here,” she said, passing him the basket of rolls. “Put your mouth to better use.”
Rory guffawed. Ethan’s pack cackled. Audra’s laughter was more restrained. Even Kelsey indulged in a subtle giggle.
But Jenna remained quiet, observing the table with a gaze that felt too mature for her twenty-one years.
As the meal continued, I noticed she never looked at Morgan. It was as if her elder sister didn’t exist.
I realized that Wyatt’s warning was serious. Jenna and Morgan didn’t have issues—they hadissues.
Martijn offered us seconds, thirds, and fourths.
Cal, the willing glutton, always accepted a fresh scoop of green beans or another roll, earning more brownie points from his prospective father-in-law with each bite.
Then Cece accidentally dropped her drink.
It tipped off the edge of her highchair and bounced across the polished oak floors. The lid popped off, splattering milk everywhere.
She froze, chubby hand futilely reaching for her cup, and burst into tears.
I tensed.
Owen’s mouth tightened into a grim line. Pallor reclaimed Wyatt’s features.
Waiting for the anger and blame. The raised voices. For the joyous bubble to burst.
But it didn’t happen.
Audra and Quinton—at least, I think it was Quinton—reassured their daughter while multiple bodies moved in unison to fix the problem. Holly darted for the paper towels. Ethan picked up the fallen cup, and Martijn quickly procured a fresh drink.
The conversation didn’t falter. No one gave Cece a dirty glance or blamed her.
It was just…normal. Accepted. A simple mistake, not a day-ruining catastrophe.
“See, it’s okay,” Morgan cooed across the table at her niece, despite her gaze traveling between Owen, Wyatt, and me.
Joaquin’s hand settled on my thigh. He gave it a reassuring squeeze, reminding me once more that my past didn’t dictate my future.
“Come on,” Kelsey said, tapping me on the shoulder as she walked past. “We’re on fryer duty.”
As Martijn guided me through the finer points of making oliebollen, Morgan sidled up, carrying a stack of dirty plates.
“How’s he doing, Papa?” she asked.
“An absolute natural!” Martijn exclaimed.
Only then did I realize his scent signature was the delicious apple cinnamon aroma permeating the kitchen.
Morgan shifted the plates to wipe an errant bit of powdered sugar off my cheek. “I knew he would be.”
She offered a quiet smile of reassurance, beautiful without realizing it, and equally oblivious that she’d given me the greatest gift today.
Hope.
Not only for myself, but also for what our pack might eventually become with enough time and care.
If only I could bottle this fleeting sense of belonging and keep it safe in my pocket. To hold in my palm like a talisman during anxious moments, proof that today had been real.
