Page 93 of October
Jimmy, halfway through a forkful of pasta, launched into his superhero story for the second time, voice pitched with excitement as if none of us had heard it before.
"And then Captain America throws his shield, but Spider-Man jumps in and—"
"We know, Jimmy," I teased gently, though I couldn't help smiling at how animated he was.
Dad, carving slices of roast chicken, pretended to grumble under his breath.
"If this story gets any longer, dinner'll be tomorrow morning."
"Grandpa!" Jimmy protested, giggling.
Through it all, Thomas moved around the table almost silently: refilling water glasses, cutting Alice's food into toddler-friendly pieces, wiping a spill Jimmy didn't even notice he made. Every time he passed behind me, I felt the faint warmth of his hand just brushing my shoulder, a quiet reassurance he didn't say out loud.
Then Jimmy's grin sharpened into mischief. "Remember that time Dad burned the barbecue?"
Thomas groaned, dropping his head for dramatic effect, "One burger," he insisted, voice muffled. "It was one burger."
Dad raised his fork like a judge delivering a sentence, "It was charcoal," he declared solemnly. "Your mother banned him from the grill for a month."
Mom, laughter already in her voice, added, "and we still bring it up every summer."
Thomas let out an exaggerated sigh, but the corners of his mouth curved up in defeat, "You lot are ruthless," he muttered, shaking his head, though his eyes flicked over to me for half a heartbeat.
Alice let out a shriek of delight, flinging a piece of broccoli directly onto Dad's plate. Without missing a beat, Dad speared it on his fork, held it up like a trophy, and announced,
"Thank you, Your Majesty. Fresh from the royal hand."
Mom swatted his arm lightly, and Thomas ducked his head, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.
Between Jimmy's endless retelling, Dad's teasing, Mom's soft laughter, and Thomas's gentle, unseen care, I felt the walls inside me loosen. As if maybe love, real love, wasn't always in grand declarations but in shared stories, burnt burgers, messy toddlers, and a hand brushing your shoulder...
After dinner, we got the girls ready for bed first. Alice, sticky with banana and jam, needed a full wipe-down that turned into squeals and giggles; Lola was easier, already half-asleep against my chest before I even set her down.
Mom and Dad were gathering their things to go upstairs. She pressed a hand to her knee, grimacing. "These knees," she muttered. "They've survived two kids, three dogs, and that disastrous attempt at Zumba, but they won't survive another late night."
Dad patted her back gently. "Come on, love, I'll rub some cream on them if you promise not to kick me when it stings."
"I make no promises," she sniffed, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Don't let your father's heroics fool you," Mom added, glancing at me. "He'll complain about it for twice as long as the massage lasts."
Dad threw his hands up. "She wounds me daily," he declared to the ceiling, then winked at me before they shuffled off together, still bickering gently in that soft, familiar way that made the house feel like home.
Few minutes later, I was watching Thomas and Jimmy untangling a mountain of blankets on the couch for movie night.
"Dad, the corners go under, not over," Jimmy scolded, fighting with a stubborn fold.
"You sound like your mother," Thomas teased, trying (and failing) to look offended.
"Well she's right about everything," Jimmy shot back, grinning.
"Well, almost everything," Thomas said, plopping down heavily onto the couch. "Except about which superhero could beat the others."
"Don't start," Jimmy warned, but Thomas only raised his brows, deadpan:
"I still say Batman could totally take Thor if he had enough prep time."
Jimmy's jaw dropped. "He's literally a god, Dad."
