I love her too, but I have to remind myself never to play favorites. Never to let one of my children feel alone, feel disregarded, unloved.
There are times I still blame myself for how Damon turned out. Xoe wanted so much of my time, she came to my bed as often as she could… and I let her. I didn’t make enough time for Damon. I didn’t love them equally. No, I let him wander, and I let him down. He loved Tristan, his oldest sister, and when she was gone… I lost him even more. It was a mercy to put him in the ground beside her. To let them be together so that our family could thrive—and we are thriving now.
They are all so beautiful.
So loved.
I hear someone shout and it pulls me from my memories. Someone else starts crying, and I set my coffee cup down to shade my eyes and look out across the field behind the house. Embry is the one crying, and Owen is looking guilty as hell. But before I can even stand up, Heather is already turning around to scoop Embry up in her arms and I can’t help but smile as she perches the girl on her hip and coos at her before she leans down to talk to Owen. I know he’s apologizing to his sister like a good boy, but he’s only seven and I’ve raised too many kids to be worried about it.
There are days I wonder if Marian would have liked to have seen this. So many kids running around, each and every one of them knowing how loved they are. Safe. Shielded from the terrible world outside our little slice of paradise.
But then I remember how jealous she would get. I remember her pulling a knife on me, and I’m not sorry in the least that she missed her chance to see our blood continue. That selfish traitor doesn’t deserve to know the shining faces that overflow our house.
Even after I built on an extra room so the girls could spread out, we’re still packed in, but it’s nice. Pretty damn warm in the winter cold. The living room converts at night to a bedroom for the little ones, and everyone is happy together. The older kids have the bedrooms, the little ones have their cribs lining the walls in the living room, and there’s always a fire going in the winter.
Damon helped me build those cribs, and even though he’s not with us anymore, his touch is on every spindle of wood. He’d had a talent for it, and it’s a shame he couldn’t have been more like Xoe. More committed to working hard, being good.
But boys are always different.
“Hey Daddy,” Casey says as he walks outside to stand next to me. He has oil on his hands and the sleeves of his pullover, and I know he’s been working on the car. It’s a piece of junk, but Casey has a way with machines. Taught himself from manuals I picked up for him in town. He leans down and pecks me on the lips before he glances out over the younger kids. Any of them could be mine, or his, but just like Wesley I’ve never felt jealous over that. Casey is my blood, and so they all are. “Who was wailing? I heard it out front.”
“Embry,” I answer with a smile. “I think Owen got a little frustrated that his little sister wanted to play with him.”
“He knows better than to be mean to her,” Casey replies with a hard edge to his voice, and I nod as I watch the kids return to making snowballs. Laughing as they jump into the white powder and start to make snow angels, and this time Owen and Gavin are letting Embry do it too.
“They’re having fun now, it’s all right.”
Casey nods and grabs the chair on the other side of the little table. He tries his best to wipe his hands on the rag in his pocket before he pours himself a glass of iced tea, and just looking at him makes me smile. Casey may be Tristan’s son, but he doesn’t have her rebellious nature. Not at all. Even when he was Owen’s age, he was the protector. Shepherding his sisters around, watching out for them, and for once I think I might have finally gotten it right with a boy.
Casey reminds me of me. Eager to show his love, committed to what is right. He wants to be just like me when he grows up, and since he’s already nineteen and hasn’t once defied me… I think I might let him see what he’s capable of.
Four
Richter
Sky has an eyebrow arched. She’s looking at me almost as if she’s not sure whether to believe me, but I wouldn’t lie about something like this.
“Did you hear what I said?” I ask, nervously rubbing the back of my neck.
She nods, then turns her attention back to lunch, but I’m not interested in eating right now. I’m interested in sharing the information I found with her—whether she wants it or not.
“I couldn’t sleep last night so I went into the old man’s room,” I begin, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone. When she steals a glance at me, I smile and shrug. “I know. We promised that we wouldn’t go back in there, but sometimes it still smells like him in there. Mom too,” I say softly. It’s almost a confession spilling out of me. We keep the door locked at all times because we don’t want to relive the memory of Dad being here if we don’t have to, but sometimes… I just need to remember that Mom was here too.
“It’s okay,” she says quietly.
