Page 129 of At First Flight
Me:
I took the science coordinator job here.
Ashvi:
You’re a small-town goddess now. Own it.
Me:
It feels weirdly… good.
Ashvi:
I’m proud of you. For real.
Me:
Thank you. For pushing me. For knowing before I did.
Ashvi:
Always. Now go kiss that hot man and make a vinegar-and-baking-soda volcano with those babies.
Me:
Deal.????
I smile and set my phone aside, letting the silence of the house settle around me like a soft quilt. It's the kind of quiet that only comes in the pause between big choices and bigger beginnings, the kind that feels like peace.
The butterfly jar on the windowsill catches my eye again.
But this time, something’s different. The chrysalis is cracking.
I lean closer, holding my breath, and watch as the delicate shell begins to peel away. One wing, still crumpled and damp, pushes through the opening, followed by another.
“Evelyn!” I call, voice barely above a whisper but loud enough to send her little feet pounding through the hallway. “Come quick, sweetheart.”
She barrels into the kitchen seconds later, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed. “Is it happening?!”
I nod, crouching to her level. “Just in time.”
We sit on the floor together, shoulder to shoulder, watching in awe as the butterfly slowly emerges, stretching itswings wide under the filtered morning light. Monarch orange. Veined in black. Fragile and fierce.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, eyes wide.
“So are you,” I whisper back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, swallowing the emotion that swells too fast to contain.
She looks up at me with that gap-toothed smile I swear could light a thousand rooms, and something inside me just settles. Clicks into place like it was always meant to be here.
“Can we let her go now?” she asks, eyes still on the butterfly.
“Not yet. Her wings need time to dry.” I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “But soon.”
Later that afternoon, I’m outside, barefoot on the back deck, watching Oliver and Evelyn chase each other through the grass with plastic swords and a jar of bubble solution that’s already half empty. The sky is the most perfect blue, like it was painted just for us.
Dean steps outside, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His shirt clings to him in all the right places, hair a little damp, as if he just stepped out of the shower. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me for a second. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or just another thing he’s scared to lose.
“You look like someone who just conquered the world,” he says finally, his voice low and warm.
