Erin
I knew there were puppies in this house. If I could find them, I could scratch their heads for an hour or two, and then reassemble the world as I knew it.
I stormed through the first floor, searching this old, winding home for the chocolate labs. I looked in closets and bathrooms, around corners and behind doors, and finally stumbled into the laundry room at the far end of the home. Instead of finding two pups, happy for my attention, I found Shannon and Matt's father-in-law, the Commodore. He was learning over the countertop, fork in hand, while the dogs sat silent at his feet.
"You can stay," he said, stabbing his fork in the direction of the door. "But only if you tell my wife you ate the apple-cranberry pie."
It was a folksy, paternal thing to say, and a startled laugh caught in my throat. No one had ever said folksy, paternal things to me.
"All of it?" I asked. "I ate the entire pie?"
"Every crumb," he said. "You're tiny but I can tell from lookin' at you that you're something mighty."
Tears prickled at my eyes, and I stared at the floor, blinking, to keep my composure. It was like I'd waited all my life to find good, decent men, and now I couldn't turn around without one trying to feed me.
"Okay," I said, glancing up to find him smiling at me. My stomach chose that moment to growl and gurgle.
"There's a squash pie back in there," he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I've been saving it for breakfast, but I'll share it with you."
I shook my head. I couldn't rob this man of his breakfast. "No, I'm fine," I said, shaking my head as my stomach rumbled in disagreement.
"I'll get another fork," he said, setting his down and exiting to the kitchen. He quickly returned, offering me a napkin and fork without a word, and we dug into the butternut squash pie.
"Thank you," I said, nodding toward the dish. "I mean, you could've kicked me out—"
"Why aren't you out there with the kids?" he asked. He pointed to the stool tucked into the countertop, indicating for me to sit.
"Overwhelmed," I said, and that earned me a concerned glance from the Commodore.
"Family can do that," he said. "Something you want to get off your chest?"
I stared at the hunk of pie on my fork, scowling. "I appreciate that, but I've spent years processing things on my own, and I'm fine. I can handle it," I said.
"I don't doubt that in the least," he said as he tapped the ceramic dish with his fork. "But being able to handle it doesn't mean you have to handle it."
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