There is a ripple of applause and a rumble of Happy Birthday, and as I find Harley and Hunter among the crowd, I catch sight of a large, framed picture of Dad.
“Birthday photo,” Logan says, jumping off the chair and pulling a fold-up tripod out of a kitchen drawer. He pushes his phone into the tripod and sets it up, facing his brothers. Chairs scrape over the linoleum as everyone gathers together. “Come on, Maggie.” Logan ushers me forward as he sets the phone onto timer mode.
It feels awkward to be shuffling into the frame of this family photo and even more awkward when Gordon shoves the image of Dad into my arms. It should be Dad who’s here for this moment when his twin foster sons mark their birthday, not me, but as Logan dashes into the frame and throws his arm around my shoulder, and Hunter finds my hand and envelopes it with his, I’m firmly pulled into the moment.
“Cheese!” Logan shouts as the light begins, the countdown flashes, and all my foster brothers fix beaming grins on their faces. I smile too because no one wants a miserable face in a celebration picture.
“Right, we need to get to eat pancakes and cake and get to practice,” Reggie says. All eyes seem to search for Gordon, who is going to have to face the music today. Harley begins to cut the cake into twelve pieces, and although it looks like a chocolate dream, my stomach just can’t take it. Reggie serves up the pancakes with bacon and blueberries. As they devour everything, washing it down with coffee, I have to smile at how cute this tradition is. I bet they used to love it when they were younger. To be honest, they still look like they’re living the best day ever.
When they’re done, they all start to rise.
“Have a great day,” I say, feeling like a mom sending her gaggle of kids off to school.
Logan grabs my hand and tugs me toward him, planting a kiss on my lips. “I will now,” he says as heat rises up my cheeks.
“Bye, Maggie,” Hunter says, pulling me into an embrace and kissing my lips softly.
“See ya, Maggie, “Harley says, mirroring his brother.
And all the brothers seem to wait in line for their opportunity to kiss me before they leave. Each kiss is intense in its own way, some bringing back memories of nights shared, others making me flush with their newness and intensity.
“We’ll be back in the afternoon to set up for the party,” Reggie says. “Will you be okay?”
“Of course. I think I’m going to finish Dad’s room.”
Reggie’s brows furrow, but I smile quickly, wanting to reassure him. “John helped me so much. There really isn’t that much more to be done.”
“Okay, well, take it easy. We’ve got a game on Friday. Will you come and watch it? Cheer us on?”
“Sure,” I say. “That’ll be great.”
Reggie’s face brightens with a smile, his eyes a soft, watery blue in the morning light. “See you later.”
They leave the house in a rumble of deep voices and thundering feet, and when the front door is closed, this home feels so empty, as though a vacuum has swept out all of the life from its heart.
I get ready quickly and head immediately to Dad’s room before I start to worry that it’s too hard. There’s still so much to do, but after John’s help, it isn’t overwhelming.
I lug bags of clothes down to the front door with labels for Goodwill. The boxes of keepsakes are still resting by the wall and on top sits the folders about the boys. As I clear the last of the trash into bags, my eyes keep drifting over. To read these private documents would be such an invasion of privacy, but how long will it take the boys to open up to me about their history? Too long. I need to be able to feel more confident about making a decision on what to do here, and the only way I’ll be able to do that is to get to know them properly.
I take the last trash bag down, still at war with myself about what to do. As I trudge back up the stairs feeling dead on my feet, I decide I’m going to do it.
Reggie told me that I need to get better at listening to my gut. My gut is telling me that I need to read these documents.
I place the folder onto the desk and settle into Dad’s chair. Inside there are separate envelopes filled with information and some photos. The first envelope is Gordon’s. My chest aches at the pictures of him, awkward in his too-short jeans and shirt, his arms almost too long for his body. His hair hadn’t been cut for a long time and hung awkwardly around his face. I skim the page, finding that he was taken into care after his momma took her own life. He didn’t find her, thankfully. He was spared that trauma. He came to Dad’s as a very scared and introverted child, a child that is hard to link to the strong, confident adult that he’s become.