Page 91 of Husband of the Year
“Daddy?” Illona asks.
I pull my phone from my pocket to check.
Olan: Just landed. We’ll be out shortly.
“Yup, they’re here,” I say. “Well, will be. Soon. They have to deplane. And walk outside. But it won’t be long.”
“Why don’t we get out so we can greet them,” Isabella says.
“And they can see my sign.” Illona unclicks herself from her booster seat and wrangles the posterboard sign next to her.
Mother Nature has gifted us with a sunny afternoon, accented by a few fluffy clouds scattered across the sky. A perfect Maine spring day. Illona holds up her poster and her handwriting, so much better than when I met her back in kindergarten, says it all:Welcome Home Daddy and Greggie. We love you!
There are hearts and flowers and a large orange truck near the bottom.
As I study her work, tears prickle the corners of my eyes. At her growth. Her love for her father. Her willingness to share him with her cousin.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you draw a truck before,” I say.
“It’s for Greggie. I figured being a boy, he might like trucks.”
“Maybe.” Isabella rests her hand on Illona’s shoulder. “But he probably loves hearts and flowers, too.” She winks at me. And how did I ever think Olan’s ex-wife was going to be the villain in our story?
“I know, there aren’t girl things and boy things,” Illona says, looking at me, and I’m quite certain she remembers those conversations and lessons from kindergarten. “But a lot of boys I know love trucks. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Fair.” I squat down and hug her, taking her all in, knowing this will be the last time, at least for a while, it’s just her.
With my arms wrapped around her, Illona does her best to hold her sign, and then it happens. I feel her heartbeat race against my chest, and her voice, louder than I’ve heard it since we told her she could be the flower girl at our wedding, screams, “Daddy!”
As I stand and turn, my eyes meet his, and a wave of relief crashes over me. With Greggie strapped to his chest, a backpack on his back, a duffel bag in one hand, and a folded stroller in the other, Olan swiftly walks toward us. He’s home.
My brain tells me to run to him, but my legs feel weak. Numb. My skin tingles and my chest tightens. The past month has been a constant ache, as if a vital part of me had been lost. But now that he’s back, it’s as if the missing piece has finally been found. I’m lightheaded. My ears ring. Breathe, Marvin, I tell myself. Breathe.
Illona jumps up and down screaming, “Daddy!”
When my bottom lip quivers, Isabella’s hand lands on my back and rubs slow circles. She leans over and whispers, “It’s okay. He’s home.”
And then Olan’s here. Right here. Illona cries. The emotional impact of having her father back after a month overwhelms her, and she grabs on to his waist. Olan opens his arms, leans into me, and I do my best to embrace him without squishing the baby.
“Here, let Auntie hold this little nugget,” Isabella says. We move apart and she reaches behind Olan’s neck and I hear a click. She’s holding Greggie, who’s either sleeping or simply confused by all the commotion and hasn’t made a peep.
“Thank you,” Olan says to her, and then he grabs me, and holds me, Illona still attached to his middle, as he kisses my cheek, then my lips. He clasps my chin with his thumb and finger, keeping my mouth near his, then pulls away just enough to say under his heavy breath, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“You cut your hair.” His eyes scan my head. I bite my lower lip and glance toward the pavement. “I like it.” Olan combs his fingers through my short hair, quickly giving my scalp a scratch.
Another kiss, this one slightly deeper, and then Olan pulls back and lifts his daughter, almost too big for this, but they make it work. Illona’s legs wrap around her dad and he kisses the top of her head, and then her lips, and I realize, now more than ever, this experience of missing Olan Stone in such a deep and visceral way is something Illona and I have shared. It’s another check on the list of items that bring us closer. I’m more than ready to be her stepfather.
“And thank you. Again. For everything.” Olan reaches over and pulls Isabella into the embrace.
“Remember. I got you. Always,” she says with a wink. Olan gives her a peck on the cheek, and I look at the sky and close my eyes. Grateful for the day.
Watching them interact, it dawns on me. Sometimes, even when a marriage ends, especially when children are involved, it doesn’t mean the relationship does. It can morph. Change. Evolve. These two started as friends and they’ve found their way back to that. Perhaps Isabella never anticipated me as an addition to their family, but we have surpassed mere tolerance and understanding to develop our own unique bond.
Isabella. Illona. Olan. Me. We’ve created our own family. Our own way.
“Now, meet your nephew,” Isabella says.
