Page 29 of The Parent Playbook
Angel rolls her eyes, still smiling. “Duty calls. Let’s go feed the beasts.”
Dinner at Angel’s place has a certain chaotic charm that’s both comforting and completely foreign to me. As we gather around the table, plates heaped with steaming lasagna, the air buzzes. Andy and Lily are practically bouncing in their seats, chatting about Maple Fest with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for the first day of summer.
I listen, chuckling as they plot their course through every festival activity, from the pie-eating contest to the corn maze. They lay out their strategy with the seriousness of generals planning a battle, deciding which events to hit first and how to maximize their candy haul.
Once again, I feel like we’re on the edge of something, but I don’t know how to cross that line. We’ve only just met, and feelings like this are usually reserved for relationships that have gone through the test of time. So why does it feel so normal to have her close to me?
But the wholesomeness of this isreal. It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of something that feels so fundamentally normal. There’s a part of me—a part I’ve muted since Corrie passed—that dreams of days like this. Simple, happy family dinners, filled with laughter and light-hearted debates about who will win the pumpkin carving contest.
The easy back-and-forth, the shared glances between Angel and me—they knit something tighter in my chest. There’s a sense of belonging that I hadn’t realized I’d been craving. It’s more than fun—it’s a glimpse of a life that might be possible.
And I want it so badly.
Angel catches my eye across the table, her smile wide as she listens to her son detail his previous Maple Fest victories. “Sounds like the kids have it all figured out. Right, Scotty?”
“Sure does.” I nod and cross my arms in my mock serious-dad look. “But we’re still going to chaperone to be safe. Make sure these two don’t get into too much trouble.”
The kids roll their eyes in unison, a perfectly choreographed move that makes me laugh. “Whatever,” Andy retorts. “It’s probably us who should be chaperoningyou two.” He waggles his finger in my face.
He’s on to something there.
As dinner winds down and we clear the table together, the kids rush off to plan their festival route, leaving Angel and me in a peaceful quiet. “Thanks for helping with the dishes,” she says, bumping my hip with hers as we load the dishwasher.
“It’s nice, you know,” I start, then pause, trying to put my finger on the feeling. “Being here, like this. Real nice.” The word doesn’t quite cover everything I’d like to say, but it’s a start.
Angel gives me a look then, her expression both thoughtful and uncertain. “It feels awfully normal, doesn’t it?” she replies with a hint of surprise, as if the idea snuck up on her, too.
We wrap up in the kitchen without talking, just the sounds of dishes clanking and water running. Once we’re done, we head out to get some fresh air. It’s cooler now. Andy and Lily are tearing up the yard, all that kid energy lighting up the place even as it gets dark. I lean on the porch railing, watching them goof around, their laughs cutting through the quiet evening like fireworks.
Angel stands next to me, her arms crossed against the chill.
“They’re good kids,” I comment, more to say something than anything else.
“Yeah, they are,” she agrees with a kind of wistfulness that I recognize. She turns to look at me and I know she sees it too. Our kids are growing up faster than we want them to.
Andy’s pragmatic voice cuts through my sense of nostalgia.
“Lily, remember we have that math worksheet due tomorrow,” he calls out, his tone sprinkling a dose of reality into the evening.
Lily rolls her eyes but nods, tugging at my hand. “C’mon,Dad. We better get going. Homework doesn’t do itself, unfortunately.”
Angel and I share a wry smile, our moment of connection gently severed by the practicalities of parenting.
“All right, boss,” I reply, ruffling Lily’s hair, which earns me a playful swat of her hand.
“Goodnight, Scotty. We’ll see you for Maple Fest.” Angel gives me a wink that could mean many things, but Lily drags me off before I have a chance to figure out which one it is.
As we walk to the truck, Lily’s chatter shifts from school assignments to the deeper waters she’s been navigating lately. Once we’re both settled in the truck, she buckles up and turns to me with a seriousness that seems beyond her years.
“So, Dad, you and Angel seem to laugh a lot,” she starts, her tone casual but probing. “I like it.”
I grip the steering wheel. My girl has been observing me. “Yeah. She’s, um, she’s great company.” I’m fumbling for the right words without diving too deep.
Lily looks out the window, then back at me. “And Angel makes youreallylaugh. Not the polite ‘ha-ha,’ but real laughs. Like when you and Mom used to play those board games.”
I can’t stop the smile, remembering. “That’s true. Hey, laughter’s important, right?”
“Super important,” Lily agrees with a decisive nod. “It’s like in those movies you love—doesn’t everyone need a good sidekick to share adventures and laughs with?”
