EPILOGUE
Ozzie
Ten years later
The crackof burning wood in the fire pit startles the three-year-old in my arms.
It’s the final straw for this toddler, who’s been disturbed all day by the sound of sawing and hammering near the kids’ jungle gym at her grandparents’ house.
Rigby’s little legs climb up my torso and she squeezes my neck with her chubby arms. “I don’t wike it!”
This child of ours has spent countless hours doing outdoor things at the Gwynn house with her mom and I, surrounded by her cousins, aunts, uncles, my parents, and Khaz. Many s’mores have been consumed by this child. Why she’s chosen tonight — the fiftieth anniversary party of Emmeline and Carl — to decide she’s afraid of campfires is a mystery.
“Aw, it happens. It’s a normal part of child development. She’s becoming more aware of her likes and dislikes,” says her Aunt Sawyer, who’s busy turning over pie irons in the fire.
“Rigby has been very vocal about what she doesn’t like since the day she was born,” I laugh.
Tabitha tosses in, “She’s just like her mom, that’s why we love her.”
“We love her because she’s her own person,” emphasizes my mom, who’s just strolled up next to me and is holding out her arms toward Rigby. “Isn’t that right? And you’re tired! It’s getting late. Grammy will put you to bed.”
Rigby thrusts out her bottom lip and reaches for her grandmother. I regret letting her go but I won’t deny these moments for my mom. I don’t really mind it when the little one clings to me. The kid makes me feel like a freakin’ superhero.
Mom winks at me as she walks away with our cherubic toddler, singing her a song to help calm her down. Mom and Dad still haven’t slowed down when it comes to hosting these huge gatherings, but they have started requesting that we go potluck — everyone brings a dish now. Mom insists it’s because she wants more time to be social rather than cook, and I can’t blame her.
There was a time in my life when I didn’t know what my special talent would be. I thought I was less talented than my siblings at everything. Turns out, I’m a kickass dad and a husband. It may sound conceited, but I’m only great at it because I love being this person so damn much.
The sun is setting over the trees, and finally the hammering has stopped. The rest of the siblings and their spouses are gathered around the fire now. I’m reminded of how I felt at family gatherings back in my early college years — everyone paired up but me.
Except now, all I have to do is go gather my wife.
I step away from the fire pit and mosey down to the work site near the jungle gym. When I arrive, Khaz nods in greeting, wiping sweat from his brow.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“All finished!” This comes from Mila, who’s calling down to me from about ten feet in the air. I look up, and she’s sitting on the ledge of a brand new tree house.
“Well done,” I say. “I just wish I’d have been more help.”
Mila scoffs. “You do help! You can help me paint tomorrow. Other than that, you do the lawyering and keep everyone happy.”
She’s wrong about the last part. It’s her who keeps the family happy. Mila was a tough one when we first began dating but she’s always been my sunshine.
I twist my lips. “I just wish we had room for this at our place.” At the moment, we’re renting a small condo in Charlotte where I stay busy working as a public defender. It doesn’t pay as much as a private practice but I love it. And we make it work.
Khaz puts the last of his tools away. “Where’s my grandbaby?”
I tell him that Emmeline is putting her to bed. The older man nods, and says it’s better if Rigby sees the treehouse in the morning, anyway.
I watch Khaz leave and find his way over to the fire pit. He stands off to the side, not joining in with the family’s banter.
“He feels more comfortable when he has a project, or when he’s watching Rigby,” Mila says from up above. It’s like she’s reading me mind. She knows when I’m overthinking. Ever since Khaz gave up mercenary work, he spends most of his time volunteering, playing chess at the park, or helping Carl with projects around the Gwynn property. The rest f the time, he’s doting on Rigby.
Mila has had to remind me again and again that the guy isn’t sad; he’s just not effusive like the rest of the family. Like me, he’s a bit socially awkward, but for different reasons.
“You know he named me after his late mother?”
I look up at her. “What?”