Chapter 6 - A New Foundation
The morning sun broke clear and bright over the Gettysburg hills, painting the oak trees in brilliant shades of gold and emerald.
It had been six months since that Friday afternoon.
The green notebook now sat safely inside a steel lockbox in my lawyer’s office in town. Evelyn had attempted to file a claim for reimbursement of "property maintenance costs," but the threat of formal criminal charges for attempted real estate fraud had quickly silenced her legal team. She and Bridget had moved back to their small hometown in Pennsylvania, their influence over our daily lives completely severed.
Patrick had taken a six-month leave of absence from his travelling project, taking a lower-paying, local position with a township engineering firm that allowed him to be home every evening by 5:30 PM.
It hadn't been an easy road. We had spent hours in marriage counseling, unspooling decades of family enmeshment, buried resentment, and learned silence. But for the first time since I had known him, Patrick was standing firmly on his own two feet—not as Evelyn’s dutiful son, but as Luke’s father and my partner.
Out on the back porch, the morning air was crisp and fresh.
The long oak table—the one where Evelyn had once declared who did and didn't belong—had been sanded down, refinished, and brought out onto the covered deck overlooking the south field.
Patrick came through the sliding glass door carrying a platter of warm, fresh cinnamon rolls, the icing dripping over the edges onto the blue stoneware plate.
"Breakfast is served," he called out with a wide, genuine smile.
Luke came running out from the living room, his face bright, his cheeks full and healthy, his hair wild from sleep. He was wearing a new pair of blue sneakers that actually fit, and he was holding a brand-new, leather-bound drawing pad Patrick had bought him for his birthday.
He jumped onto the bench, sliding right into the seat at the center of the table.
"Did you get the ones with extra cinnamon, Dad?" Luke asked, his eyes gleaming.
"You know it," Patrick said, leaning down to ruffle his son's hair before kissing the top of my head. "Only the best for the boss of the house."
I sat down across from my husband and son, pouring three glasses of fresh orange juice into the crystal tumblers my father had given us.
Luke took a cinnamon roll, took a huge bite, and looked out over the green pasture where the creek sparkled in the morning light.
"Mom?" Luke asked around a mouthful of icing.
"Yes, baby?"
"I like this table better," he said simply.
May you like
I smiled, reaching across the warm wood to hold his small, strong hand in mine.
"So do I, Luke," I said. "So do I."
