“Uh, hi,” I offer. “Like my friend said, I’m Mia. Can any of you tell me your names?”
A little boy in the front raises his hand. He can’t be more than eight and has shaggy brown hair in need of a trim. My heart clenches. I point to him, and he says, “I’m John.”
“Hi, John,” I return.
A little girl with a messy blonde ponytail waves from the front. “Hi! I’m Tabatha.”
“Hi, Tabatha!”
A few more join in, telling me their names, and I say hello to each of them, my heart squeezing tighter and tighter with every introduction.
“It’s so nice to meet all of you,” I announce. “Once upon a time, I was a little girl like you, Tabatha. And you, Maria. And just like you, Navie.” I smile. “I grew up in a home where it was hard to find food sometimes. Do any of you know what it’s like?” Nearly half their hands raise into the air, and I nod. “Yeah. Sometimes, it was hard to make friends, too, because I didn’t want them to come to my house and see how tiny it was. My mom couldn’t take me to their houses since she was working all the time, so I decided to keep to myself. Does anyone know what that’s like?”
A few more hands raise. “Yeah. I get it. I really do. I had a daddy who loved me so much, but he also had an addiction to drugs and alcohol.” A few heads fall. “I bet a lot of you know what that’s like too.” A lump forms in my throat, but I force it down. “I know some of you are afraid you’re going to wind up like them. Whether it’s your mom or dad, or your brother or sister. But I want to tell you something. I’ve been there. I’ve looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if life would ever get easier. If I’d make the same mistakes my family did. If I was going to graduate high school. Or college. Or if I could find a job or someone who loves me.” Henry looks up at me, the warmth in his eyes spreading across the space between us, hitting me square in the chest. “I want you to know you can do this. You can play the cards you’ve been dealt and still come out ahead. And if you ever question it, think of me. Think of Nala. Think of the you you want to be, and don’t be afraid of fighting for him or her. Because trust me. You deserve every single happiness. Every single one. You deserve someone who loves you and treats you right. You deserve ice cream and puppies and television shows and friends and laughter and happiness. You deserve it all.” My voice cracks, and my eyes burn with unshed tears.
As I blink the moisture away, Tabatha stands from her chair. Slowly, she walks up the steps onto the podium and wraps her arms around me.
“Hey, honey,” I start, but the words are lost when I realize she’s crying.
Her tiny body wracks with sobs as her little fists find the back of my shirt, and she holds on with all her might. My legs give out, and I lower her to the ground with me, pulling her into my lap. Tears streak her freckled complexion, and I swear I’m looking into a mirror as her watery gaze meets mine.
“You promise, Mia?” she cries.
With a nod, I peek at Henry again. Looking down at the girl in my lap, I tell her, “Yeah, Tabatha. I promise.”
Another stuttered breath makes her back heave, and she nods against my chest. The rest of the group is silent as they watch us. Blakely helps Tabatha back to the group a few minutes later. Once I’m completely finished with my speech, Blake passes cookies out while I sit on my ass, way more emotionally drained than I’d like to admit. Henry approaches and squats beside me while Nala stays with the kids, lapping up their love without missing a beat.
His hand is warm as he squeezes my thigh. “You did good.”
“You think?” I ask.
His smile makes me melt. “Yeah, Brat. I do.”
“Thanks. And thanks for pushing me,” I add. “And for being here for me despite everything.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know. Thanks for loving me. Even when I make it hard.”
“Not going anywhere,” he repeats. “And you don’t make it hard. Honestly, it’s pretty easy.”
“Even when I’m acting like a brat?” I challenge.
“Especially then,” he whispers. “Gets me all hard and shit.”
I snort. “You’re an ass.”
“An ass who loves you.”
Practically beaming, I lean closer, giving him a quick, innocent kiss. “Love you too, Professor.”
“Not your professor anymore,” he notes.
“I dunno. I think Professor has a nice ring to it, don’t you?”
“You know what has a better ring to it?” he asks.
“What?”
“Husband.”
My eyes pop. “Husband?”
“Yeah. It’s a lot better than Professor, don’t you think?”
“Henry––”
“And speaking of rings…” He digs into the front pocket of his slacks. “I was going to ask you to marry me at dinner tonight, but seeing you up here?” He glances at the empty podium. “I don’t want to waste another second without making it official. Without you calling me husband.” He slides the ring on my finger without asking for my permission, pulling another laugh from me as I take in the gorgeous, slightly over-the-top, salt-and-pepper diamond. The swirls of black in the sparkly gem are mesmerizing, and my lips part as I study it. It’s perfect.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
My attention shifts to Henry. “I’ve never seen a ring like this.”
“Never took you for a traditional girl.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. “It looks good on you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, lifting my hand to let the light shine on the unique kite-shaped diamond in the center. “So are you gonna ask me if I’ll marry you, or are you assuming I’m going to say yes?”
Henry forces himself into my line of sight and orders, “Say yes.”
With a laugh, I give in way more quickly than the old Mia would ever approve of.
“Yes.”
“That’s my girl.”
EPILOGUE
HENRY
“Ouch,” I grunt.
I squirm in the chair as the needle digs into my skin, but Mia laughs. “Oh, come on, ya big baby. It’s only a tattoo.”
Tearing my attention from the tiny bee stings, I glower at Mia. “You’re not going to kiss me and tell me everything will be all right?”
“Oh, my sweet baby,” she gushes, wrapping her arms around my neck and smacking loud, wet kisses against my cheeks. “You’re so big and brave and––”
“You’re making me regret this decision already,” I grumble, but she laughs harder.
“Careful, Mia, You’re gonna make me fuck it up. And don’t give him too much shit. Finger tattoos can be a bitch,” Milo scolds. He’s Mia’s favorite tattoo artist, and if he keeps defending me like this, he’ll be mine too.
“Well, I wouldn’t know since I can’t get my tattoo until the babies are born. Which I’m pretty sure was Henry’s plan so I couldn’t show him up during his first tattoo appointment by not whining the whole time,” Mia teases. Kissing my cheek once more, she plops back into the extra rolling chair Milo brought in for her.