Theo
The graduation morning is chaotic. The normal kind that happens in a house where a lot of people need to be in the same place at the same time and nobody can find anything they need.
“Has anyone seen my cufflinks?” Milán rushes in from the hallway and starts opening the drawers.
“That narrows it down.” Milán snatches the piece of toast from Dad’s hand and grins at him when he rolls his eyes. Milán’s hair is still wet from his shower, and he’s thrown his shirt over his shoulder instead of wearing it.
“Any news of Remy?” he asks Dad.
Dad bites back a smile. “He’ll be fine.”
“Picking up your ex and my mother from the airport at the same time is hardly being fine. Why did we punish him like that again?”
“He said it was his Christmas present for us,” Dad says.
Behind him, Rory rushes past, carrying one dress shoe.
“Where’s the other one?” Milán asks.
“I usually keep them in two separate locations,” Rory throws over his shoulder. “For security purposes.”
Dad sighs the kind of long-suffering sigh that says he’s lived with teenagers for too long.
“You know, none of this would be happening if you all had made a list and checked you have everything during these past few days,” Aiden says.
“Nobody likes a know-it-all,” Milán says, buttoning his shirt he’s now wearing.
“He’s right, though,” I say because unlike everybody else, I’m dressed and ready to go.
Milán sends Aiden a stern look. “Stop corrupting the minds of young people.”
“It almost feels like you should’ve been my brother,” Aiden says, and I grin at him.
Dad points at me as he leans against the counter. “You’re suspiciously calm for someone graduating in two hours.”
I shrug. “I did my part. I passed everything.”
“Passed,” Rory scoffs as he passes through the kitchen again, still with only one shoe. “You’re the valedictorian, you nerd.”
I make a face at him, but he’s already gone. He’s one to talk with his genius-level SAT score and track coaches from all over the country begging him to join their team in the fall.
“Nervous about your speech?” Dad asks me.
I shake my head. “I’ve practiced so much that I can recite it backwards if I have to.”
“You’re not the only one,” Rory yells from the hallway. He sticks his head in the kitchen again. “I wake up in the middle of the night with your voice in my ear, reciting the speech. It haunts me.”
“You volunteered to help,” I point out.
Dad studies me for a second like trying to figure out if I’m secretly panicking and just trying to hide it.
I’m not. Not really.
Maybe I will be by the time we make it to school, but for right now, I’m just kicking back and watching the chaos unfold around me. It’s nothing unusual. Mornings like these are kind of our thing.
Five years ago it was quieter in this house. Not quiet. Never that. We’ve always had plenty of people around, but when Milán and Rory, and to a degree Aiden, were added to our usual chaos, the house is full.
Dad grabs his tie from the back of one of the chairs and loops it around his neck. He starts tying it. Milán walks over before he can really mess it up.
“You twist it the wrong way every time,” Milán says, the kind of teasing affection in his eyes that makes me smile every time.
He reaches out his hands and takes the tie, fingers moving with quick, practiced ease. It’s such a normal thing I don’t think either of them notices.
I do.
I’ve noticed for years.
The small stuff.
Before Milán and Rory first started coming around, there was a part of me that thought love was about big things. Trips. Gifts. Grand gestures.
Big, visible stuff.
The stuff people post pictures of.
Big, visible moments where everyone can clearly see this is the part where the love happens. The kind of things that feel like proof. Like if someone loved you enough, there would be obvious signs—surprises, big plans, dramatic speeches in the rain, that kind of thing.
And maybe some of it is.
It’s how my mom loves people. It’s how she shows it, at least.
But I’ve learned the important things are the quiet ones. The stuff nobody points out. The everyday things.
Like how Dad always remembers where Milán leaves his keys. Not because Milán is particularly organized. He’s not. But because he has these little habits Dad knows. He doesn’t even need to think about it. If Milán is looking for his keys, Dad always knows where they are.
Or how Milán refills Dad’s coffee before Dad even realizes it’s empty.
Or the time we took a road trip two summers ago where Milán insisted we detour three hours just to see a waterfall Dad had read about somewhere.
Or the way they somehow manage to stand close to each other in every room without seemingly planning to. But if Dad’s at the stove, Milán ends up leaning on the counter next to him. If Milán is looking for something in the fridge, Dad’s suddenly there, too, grabbing a drink or something.
In the living room, if they ever start on the opposite ends of the couch, they always somehow end up moving to the middle together, until they’re shoulder to shoulder, without either of them really even realizing it.
It’s subtle.
If you didn’t pay attention, you’d probably never notice.
But once you do notice, you can’t stop seeing it.
It’s like gravity.
They just… drift together.
Not consciously. Not because they’re making some kind of statement.
It’s just because that’s where they naturally end up.
It’s the quiet kind of love that’s just there. Always.
And then the big gestures start to feel less like the point of it all. Those will be more like bonus features.
Because the real thing is all the small moments in between.
Five years. That’s how long we’ve been doing this.
Five years since that punch during lunch break started it all.
Five years of camping trips and road trips and movie nights and video games and dinners and… life.
It’s weird how quickly something becomes normal.
“You missed a button,” Dad tells Milán.
“I did not.” He looks down. Dad’s already fixing it for him. They’re smiling at each other. The kind of secret, knowing smile, chock full of love.
I might not be nervous, but Dad definitely looks at least a little bit more nervous than he did before. He’s trying not to show it, but I know the signs. He taps his fingers against the counter and keeps glancing at the clock.
Milán notices, too. Of course he does.
He reaches over and squeezes the back of Dad’s neck gently. It’s just a quick, grounding touch. Dad relaxes immediately.
It’s the smallest things.
Every time.
Soon enough, it’s time. We start gathering everything.
Keys.
Phones.
Caps.
The house is impossibly loud again for a few minutes.
“You ready?” Dad asks, looking between me and Rory.
“Yup,” I say and nod. Ready as I’ll ever be.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” Dad says. “Flying out of the nest.”
“It’s just college,” I say.
Dad shakes his head. “You should have been worse teenagers. Behaving abysmally is something your parents need in order to be okay with you leaving us. We never got that from you two.”
“I could set something on fire at graduation,” Rory says.
Dad claps him on the shoulder and squeezes it. “Let’s just say your heart is in the right place and leave it at that.”
“We could come up with a signal,” Rory says thoughtfully. “Like, if you stretch and wink at the same time, I know it’s chaos time.”
Dad presses his lips together and his palm to his chest. “I’m gonna miss you so much when you’re.” He pulls Rory in a tight hug.
“Let’s go before it gets too sappy,” Rory says and makes a face, but when Dad lets go of him, he smiles.
Milán laughs and claps Rory on the shoulder.
They all move out the front door, and I watch them gather on the street. Smiling. Talking. Laughing.
I lift my phone and take a picture. I want to remember this moment.
This moment is good.
It’s ours.
The love, too.
There’s a lot of it in this family.
And it’s all ours.