Willow
Approaching the new family home is still strange. You would think that after a few months, it would start to feel familiar, but I guess I’m still a little in denial about it. This beautiful three-story, colonial-style home is not the home I grew up in. This was Mom’s dream home.
Years ago, the family business, Vital, was finally stable enough to handle the move from Tennessee to Texas.
That was Mom and Dad’s goal—to move closer to my brother and hopefully be able to form a relationship now that everything has calmed down.
Since Jackson was an adult, they didn’t need to deal with the sperm donor.
They have been working on this dream for the last ten years.
They started off by finding land that would be able to fit all the needs of Vital and our family.
They were able to find one hundred and fifty acres; coincidentally, it was an insane asylum that had been abandoned for decades.
I mean, it’d been other things, too, like a tuberculosis hospital, and a hospital for wounded soldiers during the civil war.
But personally, I think the asylum fits our family best, since we are already a little fucked in the head.
After finding it, they started planning our future.
My brothers and I were fourteen at the time, and Mom and Dad involved us as much as they could.
Dad was happy to be able to build a space for the business, instead of taking what was already there and making it work.
Vital has been passed on through the generations of his family.
It was a mercenary business. His grandfather started it after he returned from World War II.
He wanted a place of belonging for all soldiers that couldn’t cope with civilian life.
Dad was raised around it and followed his family tradition of enlisting before taking over.
He retired from the Seals early compared to the other men in his family.
After the triplets were born and he had Mom and I to take care of, he decided to jump into the business.
He says that he would never regret it, though; while he wanted more time before he took the reins, he also wanted to be there for Mom, watching us grow up together.
Dad built everything with the guys in mind.
He wanted them all to be as happy and comfortable as they could be, as they were a part of our family.
They have been a part of our lives for longer than I can remember.
More and more men show up with skills and training that don’t always fit in with “normal” life, and my dad gives them a place to be a part of something again.
He helps them by providing a job, therapy if needed, and a safe place to call home for them and their families—if they have them.
Some would think that it would be bad for children to be raised around a bunch of mercenaries. I just look at it as having a shit ton of trigger-happy aunts and uncles that always have your back. Some of them even met us the first day that we moved in after leaving the hospital.
All around the property, we have houses for the families that want them.
A lot of them want to be off-grounds to have more privacy, but with the move, all the houses that were already built are being used until they can find other accommodations.
We also have barracks for people with no families who don’t mind living in close quarters.
I refer to them as dorms just to annoy them; it was the big ass asylum that had been renovated from top to bottom.
On the property, there’s a shooting range, training courses, full gym, a mess hall…
The list goes on and on. Dad wanted to make sure that his guys had everything on site that they may need.
But the best part is because of the shitty history of this place, it came with an onsite crematorium.
I mean, it’s creepy as fuck, but it does help with in-house clean-ups for some jobs.
Even my side business has had to use it a few times.
My mom let my dad handle the plans for the business, but she got the house. She chose everything that she had ever wanted, and things that she knew we would love. She said that this was going to be her and Dad’s “forever home.”
After she found out that she was sick, she changed it to the “fresh start home.” Dad hated the new name, but he never argued with her about it.
She knew that she would never get to live in this home, but she poured everything she had into creating a comfortable and inviting place for us to heal and mourn her loss.
I don’t know how she did it from states away, but when we walked through the door for the first time, it was like we could sense her.
Everything was inviting, with high ceilings, open floor plans, comfortable lighting, and furniture that she chose.
The walls were light grey with white trim, and covered with all our family photos and some random favorites that she had taken of us over the years. And it was all her.
As I pull into the driveway and get out of my car, I can see that there are still some extra cars.
We finally had Mom’s memorial service last week, after waiting to finish the move and for my brothers to get home.
They’re all following the tradition, currently serving in different branches of the military, and had to wait to get the time to come home.
They wanted to come back the second that Mom told them she was sick, but she begged them to stay.
She didn’t want them to sit around and slowly watch her die.
She tried to find excuses for me to work away from home, but that was not happening on my watch.
I was going to be there until the end, like she was for me when I was diagnosed with cancer at six, through remission, and then when the bitch came back.
Her support and love were unwavering, and I refused to not be there for her.
My dad was barely holding it together after watching his daughter fight cancer twice, and then watching the love of his life fade away painfully and slowly.
Teller joined the Marines, Gideon’s a Seal like Dad was, and Bennette is Air Force.
They said that they wanted to see what they could do by themselves and have different skill sets for when they took over the business together.
They couldn’t get back in time when Mom passed, and I think that they’re still trying to process it.
They were the biggest mama’s boys, and I can see how much they are hurting.
When we were finally able to have her memorial, everyone came. Not just the crazy aunts and uncles that are a part of Vital, but everyone that knew my mom. It was a huge turnout, and we couldn’t ask for more. It was the perfect reminder of just how loved she was.
Mom worked as a nurse after she finished her schooling, when us Quads started school.
She was a pediatric and NICU nurse. She said besides Dad, the nurses were the ones who kept her going when I was in the NICU all those months.
She wanted to be that love and support, not only for the babies, but also the parents.
Almost all her coworkers from the hospital came to her service, but also so many families that she cared for over nineteen years.
Even the people that she met during my constant stays in the hospital.
She was a ray of light and understanding for everyone that she met.
We couldn’t believe how many people would make the trip from Tennessee to Texas for her, but it was overwhelming.
Walking up the porch steps and stepping into the house, I wonder if I should go to my own house while I try to figure out how to tell Dad and my brothers about what happened.
After I started my businesses, I had plenty of money to get my own place.
I love my home, and I needed distance from everyone at my family’s house.
But with the planning of the service, my brothers coming home, and being worried about Dad taking care of himself, I haven’t been spending a lot of time there lately.
I know I don’t have to worry about Dad and the guys; they could survive on their own, being four grown-ass men.
But I can’t help it—I need to make sure that they’re okay, and I know that taking care of them, running my businesses, and completing the list of everything that Mom wanted done has helped me put off my own grief that I’m not ready to touch yet.
Also, I know that if I went to my house, I would get a shit ton of phone calls, texts, and eventually, when I kept avoiding them, I’d get three annoyed brothers barging into my house, making me talk about it anyway.
My idiots don’t understand boundaries sometimes.
I figured I’d just show up and get it all out in the open. But I’m doing it my way.
I head straight to the massive, open kitchen and start taking out the ingredients that I need, piling everything on the huge kitchen island that takes up most of the space. After pulling my curly hair into a messy bun, I get to work.
I’m a stress baker by nature, just like Mom was.
I need to process everything that happened…
and make a shit ton of cookies. I swear, since moving here, my dad has started to buy sacks of flour and sugar in bulk.
Luckily, between my bottomless pit of a family and everyone living here, none of it has gone to waste.