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“I think Dylan won,” Caleb mutters to my right.
“It wasn’t a competition,” I reply with a shake of my head.
“Well, if it was, my money is on Dyl.”
He playfully knocks my shoulder with a laugh.
“I think that’s enough,” Sadie says, nodding toward the other twin. We all look down at where Dylan has nearly demolished his entire slice, which means he’ll be up and wired for the rest of the day. I have to be the bad guy and take the plate away, incurring his adorable baby wrath.
My mom scoops him up as he screams and takes him to the kitchen to clean him.
I catch Sadie’s eye as she sits with Ezra on her lap, gently feeding him tiny bites of birthday cake. She grins up at me for a moment, and I swallow down my overwhelming gratitude.
“I love you,” I mouth to her.
“I love you too,” she mouths back.
It’s just another moment of my life that screams significance.
Not all of them are this magical. When we’re trying to balance having two babies at home, her erratic work schedule, and my demanding job, there are moments that don’t feel like a dream. They feel like work—exhausting, unforgiving, thankless work.
And then there are moments like this. When Henry is playing with his baby brothers, and Sadie is smiling at her three perfect boys, my heart explodes with love—this is when I remember what I almost gave up.
I look back on my childhood, and I try to understand how my dad could have so easily brushed us aside. He must have closed off a piece of his heart because there’s no way I couldn’t love this family as much as I do. And now that I sit in a seat that looks quite a lot like his, I remember those wise words he told me one day in a state penitentiary—look your son in the eye, listen to him when he talks, and tell him you love him. All the things he never did.
Fatherhood is easy if you just try.
Maybe he should have spent more Sundays preaching that. Then I might have listened.
The moment Henry was born, my life changed and I knew I’d never end up like my father. There wasn’t a day of Henry’s life when he wasn’t my son—bloodline or not.
Jax signed over his parental rights before Henry turned one. He could acknowledge that being a father wasn’t the right choice for him, and Sadie and I both appreciate him for that. He still sees him from time to time and Henry knows the situation, but I don’t let a day go by without telling my son just how much he means to me. I don’t want him to doubt it—ever.
Henry loves to hear the story about how I fell in love with his mother while he was in her belly. So, in a way, I was falling in love with him too. Of course, his favorite part of the story is when his mom threw up in front of the classroom while I was teaching. He cracks up every time we tell him that part.
“All clean.” My mother passes me Dylan in nothing but his diaper. His wispy dark hair is wet, and there are still streaks of green icing under his tiny fingernails. Of course, he wants nothing to do with being held with all that sugar coursing through his system, so I set him on the floor.
Immediately, he crawls to the other side of the house. The first person he meets is Dean, who looks down at him curiously as if he doesn’t know whether to pick him up or pass him a beer.
Then Dylan crawls to Isaac, who doesn’t hesitate to lift him from the floor. He manages to hold the squirmy one-year-old long enough to plant a kiss on his cheek before putting him back on the floor.
Dylan makes his way across the living room to a pile of toys in the corner. He occupies himself for a while there, banging blocks against my once pristine coffee table, and I don’t even flinch anymore.
I watch him as my family around me converses together. Sadie is talking to Sage and Briar with Ezra now nursing under her shirt. Henry and Faith are playing a board game in the kitchen. Abigail stares down at the phone in her hand as if no one here could possibly interest her more than the device. And Adam is talking to Caleb near the record player.
I feel a soft hand on my shoulder as I turn to see my mother standing by my side. It’s a soft moment. I can feel it.
“I don’t think I tell you this enough, but I’m proud of you,” she whispers.
I let out a huff as I think of my accomplishments over the years: work promotions, new literary articles and accolades, and supporting my brilliant wife as she finished her book.
But I have a feeling my mother isn’t talking about that.
She’s talking about the fact that I once feared turning into my father. And now that I am a father, I’m ten times the one he was.
“Thanks, Mom,” I reply.
With lots of therapy over the years, I’ve learned to forgive my mother for never standing up to my dad when we were growing up. There was a hierarchy in our household that didn’t put her in a powerful position, and I recognize that now.
