Chapter 25: Family Ties
The fluorescent buzz of the office felt like a lifetime ago. Now, the only light in Waverly’s nursery was the soft, peach-colored glow from the turtle-shaped lamp on the dresser. It pooled over the rocking chair where Matt’s mother, Sharon, sat perfectly still, the sleeping baby a small, warm mound in her arms.
Hannah hovered in the doorway, her knuckle pressed to her lips. She’d only met Sharon twice before, both times brief and polite. This was different. The older woman’s face, usually composed with a kind of elegant reserve, had gone soft. Her eyes, the same rich brown as Matt’s, were fixed on Waverly’s face, tracing the fan of her lashes, the perfect bow of her lips.
Sharon didn’t look up. Her voice was a feather in the quiet room. “She has your nose, Hannah.”
“You think?”
“I know.” Finally, Sharon glanced over, and her eyes were shining. She reached out a hand, not letting go of Waverly, and Hannah stepped forward to take it. Sharon’s grip was surprisingly strong, her skin cool. She pulled Hannah closer, her whisper fervent. “She’s perfect. Just perfect.”
Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices seeped up through the floorboards. It was a different kind of sound—dense, punctuated by the occasional gruff laugh from Hannah’s father, Ed.
In the living room, the tension was a slow leak, not an explosion. Matt sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. Frank Johnson sat opposite in the armchair, a fortress of stiff posture and quiet appraisal. He was a taller, older, hardened version of Matt, his hair more salt than pepper, his hands large and permanently calloused.
“So,” Frank said, his voice a low rumble. “Data coordinator. That’s a desk job.”
“It is,” Matt said, keeping his tone even. “Better hours. No more overnight shifts.”
Frank took a slow sip of his own beer. “Hours don’t mean much if the job’s not steady. Warehouse work is steady. You know what you’re doing. This… office politics. That’s a different beast.”
“I’m still in the same company, Dad. Same benefits. Just a different department.”
“And you moved in here.” Frank’s gaze swept the room, taking in the evidence of a baby—a discarded burp cloth on the arm of the sofa, a pacifier on the coffee table. “Fast.”
Matt felt the muscle in his jaw tighten. He’d anticipated this. “It made sense. Hannah needed the help. I wanted to be here.”
“Help is one thing. A mailing address is another.” Frank set his bottle down with a definitive click. “You’re young. You’ve got your whole life. A baby, a woman with a career shift… that’s a lot of anchors, son.”
The word hung in the air. Anchors.
Before Matt could form a response, the back door swung open and Ed barreled in, a gust of cool evening air following him. He had a paper bag in one hand and a wide, guileless grin on his face.
“Frank! Found the good stuff hiding behind the lawn fertilizer. My neighbor’s a bourbon guy, gets it from some little place in Kentucky.” He pulled out a bottle of amber liquid, then two glasses from the bag with a magician’s flourish. “You like football, right? Pre-season’s on. Might as well make it interesting.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He poured two generous fingers, handed one to Frank, and dropped into the space beside Matt on the sofa, his presence large and immediately diluting. “Matt, your dad was just telling me he used to play offensive line. That right? Explains the shoulders. Hannah got her build from her mother, thank God.”
Frank looked from the bourbon to Ed’s open, expectant face. The interrogation had been neatly, decisively derailed. He accepted the glass, a faint, reluctant smile touching his mouth. “Played a little. A long time ago.”
“A long time ago, my ass. You look like you could still clear a path.” Ed clicked his glass against Frank’s. “To family. Complicated and wonderful.”
They drank. Frank’s shoulders dropped a half-inch. On the screen, a football game flickered to life, the commentary a meaningless stream of white noise. Matt exhaled, the tightness in his chest easing. He caught his father’s eye. Frank gave him a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t approval, not quite. It was a ceasefire.
Upstairs, Sharon finally, carefully, stood and placed Waverly back in her crib. She adjusted the blanket with a precision that spoke of experience. “He’s worried,” she said softly, as if reading Hannah’s thoughts about the voices below. “Frank just… he worries in the shape of questions. It’s how he shows he cares.”
“I know,” Hannah said. And she did. It was familiar.
Sharon turned and placed both hands on Hannah’s shoulders. “You’re doing a magnificent job. He’ll see it.” She leaned in, pressed a dry, fragrant kiss to Hannah’s cheek. “We should rescue them from your father’s terrible bourbon.”
Later, after the cars had pulled away and the dishes were in the drying rack, the house settled into a deep quiet. Matt found Hannah on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket, watching the moths beat themselves against the porch light.
He slid the door shut and stood behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She leaned back into him.
“Im sorry my dad thinks you're an anchor,” Matt said into her hair.
She didn’t turn. “My dad got him drunk and made him watch three quarters of a pre-season game. I think it’s a draw." He laughed, a short, quiet burst of air. “It was a tactical masterpiece. Your dad’s a genius.”
“He’s had practice.” She was silent for a moment. The moth finally stilled, clinging to the hot glass. “Are you? Anchored?”
His arms wrapped around her, crossing over her chest, holding her tight against him. He felt the solid, real weight of her, the warmth through the blanket. He thought of the spreadsheet on her computer, the disclosure form in the HR drawer, his father’s skeptical eyes, the impossible perfection of his daughter’s sleeping face.
“No,” he whispered, his lips against her temple. “I’m not anchored.” He turned her gently to face him. The porch light carved shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was clear, certain. “I’m planted.”