The younger kids made banners for the fence.
One said:
HAPPY 18TH, NOAH!
Another had so many spelling mistakes that nobody had the heart to fix it.
Noah laughed hardest.
I stood at the grill cooking hamburgers while the younger children chased each other around the backyard.
For the first time in years, our Willow Lane house sounded like Mara and David’s home once had.
Then a black sedan pulled into the driveway.
I knew it immediately.
David’s parents stepped out.
Perfectly dressed.
Expensive gifts in hand.
And wearing the expressions of people who fully expected to be welcomed.
One of the younger girls leaned toward Noah.
“Who are they?”
Noah answered softly.
“Our grandparents.”
She frowned.
“I thought Aunt Elena was our family.”
Nobody had intended the sentence to hurt.
That did not make the silence afterward any easier.
Their grandmother forced a smile.
“We brought Noah something.”
She handed him an expensive wrapped box.
“Thank you,” Noah said politely.
His grandfather cleared his throat.
“We heard you’ve done very well in school.”
Noah nodded.
