it would give us alone time. After all, his excuse to visit me was pretty flimsy. He claimed it was to show me some stuff he’d found to put up for sale in my shop. He could have just dropped the goods off when I was at work, but instead he came knocking on my door.
He didn’t stay long and apologized profusely while collecting his dog from Winnie, who’d had the misfortune of bumping into our grumpy neighbor, Jace. Darryl promised he’d see me soon.
I couldn’t wait. I’d been smiling so much lately my cheeks hurt. This was happiness.
My life was a box of chocolates with each flavor a day that became my new favorite one. My enjoyment was marred only by a foreboding that something wicked was coming to run me over.
Dun. Dun. Dun.
Could anyone else hear the ominous music playing? Why couldn’t I enjoy the moment? Seize the day? Why did I have to constantly think negatively? Did I want the drama?
As I hit the main floor of my cottage—that was sliding into a mid-sized house—it was to see my son at the sink, rinsing his dishes—not something he’d ever done when he lived at home. But it appeared moving out on his own gave him a better appreciation of the kind of help I’d hoped for when we all lived together.
At times, I felt bad at how often I got mad at my kids. Getting caught up in stupid shit that had no importance, like wanting them to clean their rooms, stack the dirty stuff inside the dishwasher, put their laundry away. And my biggest peeve, shoes and socks all over the front hall.
Now some would say that yelling paid off because look at my kids now. They might be living with me at the moment, but they were model roommates. However, new me, wiser me, wished I’d shown more patience. I loved my kids but didn’t always express it in the best ways. My personal misery led to me sharing it. In hindsight, I could see the despair in my actions. For a while, I’d forgotten how to look for the joy.
But I was learning. Every day I got a little better at it. The biggest thing I’d learned? Start your day with a bright disposition.
“Morning, fruit of my loins,” I chirped as I sailed into the kitchen.
My son cast me a glance behind a thick hank of hair. He’d let it grow out, along with a beard. My baby boy sported a scruffy jaw. “You’re in a good mood.”
“It’s a beautiful morning.” Spoken by someone who’d yet to set foot outside.
Geoff glanced at the window. “It’s overcast, and the forecast is saying to expect a few inches of snow.”
“Then it’s a good day for you to game with your friends,” I announced. When he was a teen, I worried about him playing them too much and yet set no limit on television watching. I saw no harm in the fake drama on screen. Back then, video games were the rock and roll of that generation, ruining kids.
And then I discovered the joy of apps on my phone. Why had I ever limited him? I now understood the calming nature of an electronic game. I’d been Candy Crush-ing enough I was level 705.
“Gaming requires a computer or, at the very least, a television not built in the 1980s and a video game console, Mom,” he said with amusement.
I glanced around at my house and sent it a thought. You heard that. I don’t suppose you can conjure those up?
The house didn’t exactly reply. It never spoke per se, but it did provide. Be jealous. I had a magical home that just wanted to please, and it dusted!
“I might just be able to wrangle something for you,” I said aloud. If the house couldn’t do it, then maybe I could buy something in town.
His brows rose. “Don’t tell me you’ve got an Atari kicking around?”
“You better hope not, because I will challenge you to a game of Pong and kick your butt.” I did a little victory move that had him snorting.
“You are so weird.”
It melted my heart to hear him say that because when he was young, he used to say that when I’d do silly things to make him smile.
“Not as weird as you,” I chanted in reply with a wink.
“You off to the shop today?”
I nodded. He’d tried to help out the first day, but selling antiques just didn’t have the same appeal to