Page 92 of When Love Takes Root

That got in.

I kept my voice steady. “I’m not offended by a boy loving his mama hard. If God lets me get close enough, I’ll earn what he’s willing to give me. I won’t demand what he’s not ready to release.”

She looked away, breathing through whatever that had touched.

I gave her a few seconds, then added, “But you can’t lie to them to protect everybody from the truth. It’ll make the truth feel scarier than it is.”

She nodded, tears bright along her lashes. “I know.”

“And you can’t lie to yourself either.”

Her eyes came back to mine.

There was the heavier part.

I let it sit between us before I spoke again. “If you’re not ready, tell me. I’ll respect that. I don’t want to pull you into something you have to survive. I don’t want your yes if it costs you peace you’re not ready to spend.”

The tear fell then. She wiped it away fast, almost irritated with herself.

“But don’t call fear wisdom just because it sounds responsible,” I said.

Her breath caught.

“That’s what God dealt with me about today,” I admitted. “I asked Him for patience, but I also asked Him not to let me hide behind patience if He’s telling me to move. Waiting can be holy. So can obedience. The hard part is knowing which one God is asking for.”

Celeste stared at me, and the tension in her shoulders eased by degrees.

“What did He say?” she asked.

I gave her a small smile. “He told me to keep my hands clean and my ego out the way.”

That pulled a wet laugh from her.

I smiled wider because I would take whatever laughter she could give me, even if tears came with it.

“He told me to honor what was planted before me, not uproot it, nor to compete with a man who loved you right. And if I’m going to ask for a woman with children, I need to be prepared to love everything attached to her heart.”

Her mouth trembled.

I moved closer then, close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to smell the oil in her locs and the peppermint on her breath. Still, I didn’t touch her.

“I’m not here to replace. I’m here to love and restore.”

“Restore what?” she whispered.

“Whatever God allows me to. Peace. Trust. Laughter. I’m not arrogant enough to think I can heal everything you’ve lost. But if He lets me, I want to be one of the ways He reminds you life didn’t end when grief showed up.”

She studied me through wet lashes.

“And if He doesn’t?” she asked.

“Then I’ll still do right by you.”

Her chin dipped.

I saw the moment she believed me.

Not fully. Not without fear. But enough for her hands to unfold from around herself. Enough for her shoulders to lower. Enough for her to take one small step closer, then stop as if her body had moved before her mind finished voting.