Chapter Twenty-Four
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Sarelia
“In case you need it,” Archie murmurs, setting a small, otter-shaped notepad in my lap. He drops a black gel pen after it, then kisses my forehead before straightening to stand beside the big, round chair I chose for my seat.
My family sits across from us on the soft couch in varying stages of emotion.
Fred slouches, crossing his arms and pouting. “I don’t see why I need to be here for this,” he grumbles. “I didn’t even get to try any of the chicken. Not to mention the cake. I’m suffering.”
“Rosie said she’d bring us cake tomorrow,” I remind him. “You were right there. You heard her.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” he whines. “We’re going to miss it!”
“You’ll get cake before you leave,” Archie promises.
“But, as much as it hurts to say, cake does not take precedence over communication, and you may not instigate a serious conversation and then abandon it to your sister for the sake of confection. Defending her is only honorable if you are willing to sacrifice to do it. That’s basic chivalry. ”
Fred’s eyes hit mine, wide and incredulous. “Did you marry a knight?” he asks. “Who talks like that?”
“I did,” I confirm, pride welling in my chest. “And he’s absolutely right. No cake for you.”
Fred sniffs, burrowing into his sulk. “I should’ve let them baby you.”
My eyes soften. “Fred,” I call, regaining his attention, if reluctantly. “I appreciate you. And I love you.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I don’t much care for being made out to be a villain,” Dad cuts in, frowning at us. “We’re not your enemies. It’s not us against you. It’s us for you.”
I bite my cheek and glance at Mom, who agrees verbally, but her eyes…
“Mom?” I ask.
Her hands twist in her lap. “I… We’re not your enemies, right?” she asks. “You guys know that we love you? That we’re only doing our best to make sure that you have the best lives you can?”
Dad’s brows furrow as he turns to her. “How could they not know?” he asks before we can answer. “It’s all we’ve ever tried to do.”
“I know that,” Mom replies. “And you know that, Scott, but… I don’t know. Don’t you remember what it was like to be young? When the world didn’t seem so scary and it felt like our parents didn’t know anything at all?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “And I remember when we realized they did know a thing or two after all, and that we could’ve avoided a whole lot of trouble if we’d just listened to them.
” His attention slides to me. “We love you. We love you so much, but we were barely twenty years old when we had you, and neither of us had ever been around babies before. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing.
We thought our love would help us figure it all out—not the wisdom of our parents or the resources they tried to point us to, but our love.
” He scoffs. “Love can do a lot of things, Lia, but it can’t teach a man what to do when his wife has mastitis and his baby is running a fever of a hundred degrees and he’s too stubborn to ask his parents what to do.
” He shakes his head. “And there were a lot of nights like that. Nights when we needed help but wouldn’t ask for it.
Nights that our parents never even knew about because after so long of us not listening, they gave up on trying to tell us anything.
It took years for us to work up the courage to ask for help and then accept it.
Years of struggle that in the end were pointless.
We could’ve had everything we needed straight from the start, if only we’d listened. If only they’d kept talking.”
Mom’s hand lands on his shoulder, and he reaches up to cover it with his own.
“We don’t want that for you or your brother,” he continues.
“We never want to be the parents who stop trying. We never want to be the ones you feel like you can’t ask for help.
And if that means sometimes we take it a little farther than you think we should…
well, I’m okay with that. I’d rather be overbearing than underwhelming in my care. ”
I blink against gathering wetness, gripping the pen in my hand so tightly that the plastic groans in my grasp.
“I didn’t know all that,” I say, more than a little ashamed.
I’ve been so focused on myself and how the way they are makes me feel, I never thought to wonder why they are that way.
As if I don’t know that a person’s character is greatly affected by their intentions.
A bad guy is only a bad guy if he has ill-intent.
Without it, he’s just a misguided man in need of some character growth.
My parents are not bad guys. Not that I thought they were, exactly, but…
Well, I didn’t think they only needed character growth, either.
Fred, notably less moved, grunts. “There’s a whole lot of space between overbearing and underwhelming,” he points out. “Is there some reason you can’t aim for somewhere between the two?”
“Don’t you think that’s what we’ve been doing?” Dad asks.
“Not really, no,” Fred answers.
“Fred.” Archie’s tone demands attention, and my brother’s eyes dart to him, obeying.
“Communication only works if everyone involved is open to hearing what everyone else has to say and willing to extend grace, compassion, empathy, and compromise as needed. Communication is not simply saying what you want to say until your counterpart feels sufficiently guilt-ridden and willing to do what you’d like them to do.
You must listen. You must at the very least try to understand where the other party is coming from.
You cannot set up reasonable boundaries with your parents if you don’t hear them out to find out what reasonable actually is.
They’re being vulnerable right now and doing something many parents do not—explaining the source of their anxieties and the thought processes behind their actions.
Your response is not only disrespectful, it’s unkind. ”
Archie’s eyes slide to my parents, and he whammies them next.
“Your past has shaped you,” he says. “And I think we can all understand that. But even as it shapes you, you cannot let it define you or control you. Can you honestly say that you’re enjoying your lives wrapped up in worry and anxiety all the time?
Are you enjoying your children? How much time have you wasted worrying about what-ifs instead of celebrating the things that are right in front of you?
How much time have you wasted not trusting yourselves or the way you’ve raised your children—not trusting them?
” He pauses, letting his words have a moment to sink in before finishing, “If you can let go—if you can allow yourselves to breathe in the life that you’ve built instead of dragging it heavily on your shoulders—I promise you, you’ll find the beautiful lives you so dearly want for your children, and you’ll actually be able to appreciate them. ”
Fred blinks at Archie.
Mom blinks at Archie.
Dad blinks at Archie.
I scribble furiously at a tiny otter.
IOU, it reads. Redeem this for one three make-out sessions at the times of your choosing.
I shove the paper into my husband’s pocket as my brother regains the ability to speak.
“Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at our parents.
Mom lets go of Dad to wrap her arms around Fred. “No,” she asserts. “We’re sorry. You’re right, finding the middle ground is important, and clearly we’ve missed the mark.”
A drop of something splashes in my chest, feeling an awful lot like hope.
Mom’s eyes find Dad’s. “Archie’s right,” she declares.
“As much as they need to respect and trust where we’re coming from, we need to respect and trust them back.
” She heaves a breath in, then out. “I don’t want to worry so much anymore.
I want what he said we can have.” She points at my beautiful, incredible, wise, seriously freaking hot husband.
“I want to enjoy life. I want– I want to learn how to set aside anxiety. I want our kids to be able to be out of our sight for more than twelve hours without me thinking they’re dead.
I want to be better.” She lays a hand on his cheek.
“We’ve messed up so much,” she says. “I don’t want to mess up any more. ”
Fred sniffs, holding his eyes open as wide as he can in an attempt not to cry.
Dad wilts.
“You haven’t messed up,” I say, willing him to look at me. When he doesn’t, I call for him. “Dad. You haven’t messed up.”
His head turns toward me, eyes hitting mine and bouncing away. “I have,” he disagrees. “And the only one who doesn’t seem to know it is me.”
“You–”
Archie squeezes my shoulder, stopping me.
I twist my head up to him.
“He has,” he murmurs, then smiles softly at my resulting frown, tapping the edge of it with his finger.
“Forgiveness is not ignoring what’s been done.
It’s allowing them the space to do better.
You do him an injustice by sweeping it under the rug, forcing him to sit in his guilt.
Give him his opportunity to make amends. ”
Well, I hate the sound of that.
He huffs not-quite-a-laugh. “Your way is sweetness and grace to an angelic extent,” he allows.
“But my way helps to prevent the spread of festering resentment on your part, and guilt with no place to go on his.” He sweeps a hand over my hair, tucking it behind my ear as my lips turn down.
“I’m sorry. I’m being bossy. I mean only to give you advice, my darling.
However, you know your family best, and if you believe that forgiving and forgetting is the better path, then we forgive and forget. ”
“No,” Mr. Prim says, and we turn startled eyes to him. “I would like the chance to make amends.”
“I don’t need amends,” I reply. “If the only thing you do is try to trust and support my choices going forward, I’m good.”
“I need them,” Dad says. “Your mother can choose what form of forgiveness she would like, but I would appreciate the opportunity to make it up to you.” He looks at Fred. “And you. In whatever way I can.”
“Me, too,” Mom declares, grabbing Dad’s hand. “Both of us, together. We make mistakes as a team, and we fix them as a team.”
My heart squeezes, and the inkling of hope in my chest grows a little, winding around my veins and spreading.
“A team,” Dad agrees, eyes misty.
Fred clears his throat. “Well. I guess that’s fine then,” he mumbles. “Don’t know why everybody had to get all weepy about it.”
Wiping a tear from my cheek, I snort.
Mom cracks a smile, though small, but Dad’s determined face doesn’t change.
“We’re going to do better,” he promises. “And we’re going to make up for all of the years that we didn’t.”
“Okay,” I acknowledge softly. “If that’s what you need.”
“It is,” he replies with a firm nod. Mom concurs.
“All right,” Fred concurs with a casual wipe of his sleeve that is absolutely definitely not meant to clear any weepiness.
Dad stands and approaches the window, peering out at the backyard below it.
“Our first step toward making amends,” he says, “will be intercepting Archie’s family downstairs before they can make off with the cake.
” He turns, walking swiftly to the door.
“They’re packing up the food now, so we must be quick. ”
Mom jumps to follow him, muttering about asking for the recipe as well.
Fred and I lock eyes, and he blinks.
“That went well,” he says. “Your husband’s cool.”
“My husband can hear you,” I reply. “He’s not decoration.”
Fred’s eyes crinkle. “Yes, he is. He’s all over your room at home.”
I scowl. “Pictures of him are decoration,” I teach. “Cardboard cut-outs are decoration. The man himself? Not decoration. Also, you were supposed to bring those to me.”
“Are you saying the real thing isn’t as pretty as the pictures?” He takes in Archie, who watches us with amusement.
My eyes narrow. “Take that back.”
He shrugs. “You’re the one who said it.”
“I did not,” I hiss, leaning toward him. “Take it back.”
“Ah, ah, ah.” He wags a finger at me. “That’s not very grace, peace, and love of you. And in this, the family meeting room! I’m appalled.”
“Archie, my knight,” I ask, baring my teeth at my younger brother.
“Yes, my love?” he replies, mirth undercutting his words.
“Do you think I could use the basement?”
Archie barks a laugh as he digs a hand into my hair, twisting me to face him. Mischievous eyes close in.
Notably, he does not answer.
He does, however, decide to cash in an IOU, falling to his knees to embrace me and send Fred fleeing for safer ground.
“You’re right,” I pant between kisses. “This is way better than torturing Fred in the basement.”
He chuckles. “Probably more traumatizing for him, too.”
I grin. “Only one way to find out.”
He bursts into laughter, but does not concede to letting me torture my brother in the basement to test his hypothesis. A pity.
I’d pout about it, but Archie’s lips hit mine again, and all thought flees at his sunflower taste on my tongue.
I relax into him, letting go of my tension and anxieties until all that’s left is him, and me, and and a future full of fairytale kisses and love.