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I grinned up at Tara, scratching behind Ladybug’s ears. “But worth it?”

“Depends on what you’re cooking.”

“A casserole.”

Her eyes narrowed with consideration. “And wine?”

“Yes, please,” Whitney cut in, shimmying out of her jacket.

“Wine. Mexican casserole.” My eyebrows waggled. “And whiskey bread pudding for dessert.”

Tara’s eyes bulged. “Jesus. Sold. Then we’re immediately going to the ocean. You can’t stop me.”

I stood from the floor and swiped golden fuzz off my leggings as Reed sauntered out of the kitchen with a scowl on his face, decked out in his usual attire of a T-shirt and dark jeans.

But it was the extra item he was wearing that had Tara snorting a laugh behind her hand. “Nice.”

Tara had stayed true to her promise from years back of gifting Reed an apron.

It was pink.

He wasn’t happy about it.

But he’d dig it out of the closet every time Tara came to visit, which was twice a year. Summer and Christmastime.

Sighing with a self-deprecating shrug, Reed rearranged his face, until a beaming grin shimmered back. “Hey, Squirt.” He glanced at Whitney. “Whit.”

She smiled a greeting.

Tara shuffled forward, releasing her suitcases and accepting the warm hug he extended. “Good to see you, Dad,” she said, holding him close.

My eyes misted at the sight.

The years had been kind to all of us. Difficult, at first, but filled with compassion, healing, and understanding, nonetheless. When Reed had packed up his condo and moved to the east coast to be with me, I had no idea how the future would play out. Would Tara hold on to her resentment? Would it burst back to life in shades of black and gray?

Those first few months had been anxiety-ridden and daunting.

But as time had passed, and Tara had communicated amiably, without any lingering doubt or hostility, our lives had begun to take on fresh meaning. A new outlook.

Love won out like a steady flame.

As I moved the suitcases to the side, our adopted babies rushed to the foyer, all squeals and smiles. “Hi, Grandma!”

“Hi, Auntie Tara!”

Both women bent over, scooping up a respective child in their arms.

Tara held our daughter close, their brown hair blending as one. “You got bigger.”

“I’m almost five.”

“I was five once. It was great.” She set our daughter down and mussed our son’s hair as he lay sprawled against Whitney’s chest. “I missed you little rascals.”

“We missed you, too.”

“That’s the truth,” I said. “They talk about you every day.”

“Of course they do. I’m the best.”