October, The Odd Ones

Ten years later...

Mom's crying again.

Not the loud kind. Not the shaking kind either. Just quiet, soft tears that keep slipping out no matter how many times she wipes at them with the sleeve of her cardigan. The kind of crying she does when her heart's too full.

Dad has one arm around her, the other hand gripping my shoulder like he's afraid she might disappear if he lets go.

And here I am—Jimmy. Their son. Their oldest. The boy who used to hide in his room when the silence became too much. Now standing in front of them with a ring box in my hand, sweaty palms, and a heart thudding so loud I'm surprised they can't hear it.

"So, as I said, I'm going to propose," I say again, even though they heard me the first time. I needed to say it out loud. Needed to see their faces when I did.

Mom let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sniffly sob. "My baby's all grown up. A whole man now."

I groaned, grinning. "Mom, please. Not the my baby speech again."

She wiped her eyes, dramatic as ever. "You were just drooling on my shoulder and now you're out here with a career and talking about marriage. How dare you."

I smirked. "Pretty sure I stopped drooling years ago."

She gave me a look. "Debatable."

I laughed. "Well, debatable or not, I'm a graphic designer, fully employed, emotionally stable, most days, and hopefully soon-to-be married."

She threw her hands up. "You're... a grown-up! When did that happen?!"

"Somewhere between puberty and paying taxes," I said, nudging her playfully.

She shook her head, smiling through teary eyes. "You're still my baby, no matter how many invoices you send." Her tears only fall harder, and I feel something loosen in my chest. Something warm and weighty all at once. Because they earned this moment. We all did.

There was a time it could've gone the other way.

That year—God, that year. The one when everything cracked.  When Mom went quiet and threw dad out. When I learned to tell time by the sound of their silences. I didn't understand everything. Still don't. I just knew something was broken. Something big.

But they didn't let it stay broken.

They went to therapy. Started showing up, for each other and for us. They fought for us. And slowly, almost painfully, things changed. I saw it happen. Not in grand gestures, but in the small, stubborn ways they chose love every day. I watched my dad become... more. More present. More patient. More annoying, honestly but in a good way. Especially with us.

The shelter he started became his second home. Then it became shelters, plural. As if saving animals might save something in him, too. He took in strays like he was making up for every childhood pet he was never allowed to have. Dogs with three legs. Cats with anxiety. A goat named Meryl Sheep, and, of course, Hugo—the parrot who screams Taylor Swift lyrics whenever he's startled. ("I'm the problem, it's me!" has never been so unsettling at 2 a.m.)

He's softer now, in a way he never used to be. I don't mean weaker. I mean open. Unarmored. His gentleness isn't hesitant anymore; it's steady. Visible in the way he crouches to greet a nervous puppy or lingers too long at the window when I used to come home past curfew.

He hovers sometimes. Overcorrects. Tries to parent with an earnest intensity that makes me both love and pity him. Like when he asked Alice if she wanted to go shopping with him to "bond" and she stared at him like he'd offered to sell her on eBay.

She's a tough teenager. Smart, fierce, emotional as hell. Always has been, and Dad? He tries. God, he tries. Even when she acts like he's asking for a kidney just by wondering how school went. He lets her storm off. He doesn't shout. He sits with it, waits. Sometimes he'll knock on her door just to slide in a plate of fruit. No words. No pressure. Just a quiet "I'm here" in apple slices and orange wedges. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I'll find her in the living room, curled up next to him on the couch, pretending she's just "too tired to move," but really, she's come to lean into him again.

I'll never forget the day she told him she had a boyfriend.

We were in the kitchen. She said it so casually, like she was asking for a snack. "Oh, by the way,  I'm dating Theo now." Just like that. No buildup. No warning. She was biting into an apple, completely unaware that she'd just detonated a nuclear bomb in her father's chest.

I swear I saw the blood leave his face. His whole body went still, like someone had paused him mid-breath. He blinked. Then blinked again. "No," he said finally, voice flat, like he was stating a basic scientific fact.  He looked at me and said, "No. That can't be right. She still sticks glitter on the dog's tail. She can't date. She's seven."

"She's fourteen," I whispered. He didn't hear me or maybe he refused to. Alice rolled her eyes so hard they nearly launched out of her skull. "God, Dad. It's not that deep."

But to him? It was. It was deeper than oceans. It was watching the little girl who used to fall asleep on his chest now talk about boys, not cartoons or crayons or the fact that ketchup is a soup (her long-held and very passionate opinion). This was different. This was the beginning of her belonging to the world, to herself, and not just to us.

Mom had to talk him down. She pressed her hand to his chest like she  was trying to restart his heart through sheer proximity. "She's okay," she  said gently. "We raised her well. She's still Alice. She's just...growing." Only Mom could've reached him in that moment and even then, barely. He sat down at the kitchen table like he'd aged a decade in five minutes.

And then there's Lola. Eleven now. Still little enough to believe in magic. She leaves notes for the tooth fairy even when she doesn't lose teeth. Her bedroom is a kingdom of stuffed animals and glow-in-the-dark stars. That night, after the boyfriend bomb, dad held her tight for a long moment, like he needed something to anchor him. Then I heard him whisper, "Stay my baby a little longer, okay?"

She nodded seriously, like she knew what was at stake. Like she understood she was his last little island of innocence in a house that was changing fast. She kissed his cheek, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said, "I'll be your baby forever."

That's who he is now.

A man who knows that parenting isn't about always having the right words. Sometimes it's about staying, especially when they push you away. Sometimes it's about feeding animals, and teens, and marriage with the same slow patience, and he does. Every single day.

That's what's running through my head now, standing here with this ring.

Because this moment? Asking for their blessing? It doesn't happen without that year. Without all of us deciding we were worth fighting for.  I look at them, my mom with her tear-streaked cheeks, my dad with that lopsided smile he only wears when he's proud, and I realize I'm not scared. I'm ready.

I open the box.

The ring is simple and elegant. A smooth silver band cradling a deep green emerald that shimmers like new leaves after rain. On either side of the stone, so subtle you might miss it without looking closely, are carved cat ears—just the right touch of mischief and magic. Just like her.

It's more than a ring. It's a quiet tribute. To her laughter. To us. To the girl who once handed me a crumpled drawing of a cat wielding drumsticks, cheeks flushed, because she had a ridiculous, beautiful crush on "the boy with the cool sketchbook.""

Mom lets out a low whistle. "She's gonna love that."

Dad leans forward. "That's the first thing she ever drew for you, isn't it? That ridiculous drum-cat."

"Yeah," I say, a little breathless from all the emotion bubbling under my skin. "She's weird in the best possible way. Names her cats like they're nobility, Sir Whiskerton the Third, Duchess MeowMeow of House Fluff, and she gives them horoscopes. I swear to God, she told me once we had to cancel a date because one of them was having 'a sensitive Pisces moon day.'"

Mom laughs through her tears, shaking her head like she's both bewildered and charmed. "She sounds like someone who brings color into a room."

"She does," I say. "She makes everything lighter. Fun. She makes me laugh until my ribs hurt, and she never lets me sit in silence too long if she thinks something's wrong. She just—knows."

"She has green eyes," Mom adds softly, glancing down at the little velvet box in my hand.

I nod. "Yeah. That's why the stone. The emerald. I learned that from Dad."

Dad, standing quietly just off to the side, looks up at that, his eyebrows raised.

"Oh yeah?" he says, crossing his arms, clearly trying not to smile.

"Yeah," I grin. "with your fifty shades of brown and we all know why."

He rolls his eyes, though it's affectionate. "Brown looks good on me."

Mom gives him a look.

He shrugs. "What? It reminds me of her. Sue me."

"You told me once," I say, mimicking his deeper voice, "'I like having her on me somehow.'"

Dad groans, muttering, "Jesus, I forgot I said that."

"I didn't," I smirk. " Irreversible damage."

They both laugh, Mom wiping at her cheeks again, then stepping closer. She reaches up and touches my face the way she always has like she's smoothing back time and trying to memorize the man I became.

"You're steady," she says, voice full of a mother's kind of awe. "Patient. Kind. Stubborn, but soft in the right places and you stayed open... even when it would've been easier to shut down. I'm proud of the man you became."

Dad nods beside her, quieter, but there's that familiar lopsided smile he only wears when his heart's full.

"You didn't just grow up," he says. "You showed up. For her. For your sisters. For yourself and if you ask me, that's the kind of man worth saying yes to."

My throat tightens, and I have to look away for a second. The weight of what they're saying settles over me, grounding me. Making this moment feel even more real.

"Thanks," I murmur. "Both of you."

Then I open the box again, "Think she'll like it?" I ask.

Mom's eyes well up again. Dad just grins and says, "If she doesn't, I'll take it. Very regal. Could be my new 'emotional support' ring."

We all laugh, and for a moment, the world is warm and still.

And I know I'm ready.

Then he turned to me, more serious now. "You have our blessing, Jimmy. Of course you do."

He looked at Mom. "Right?"

She nodded slowly, her hand pressed against her heart like she was trying to keep it steady. "Yes," she said, her voice thick. "But Jimmy—be careful with each other's hearts."

"I will," I promised, meeting her gaze. "Always."

Dad placed a steady hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze—the kind of touch that said more than words. "Go build something good."

And I will. With her. The same way they did.

Because I remember them before everything fell apart, that doomed year where silence replaced laughter, where we all started walking on eggshells around the house, afraid to say the wrong thing. I remember how quiet the living room became. How Dad worked too much. How Mom smiled less. How dinner turned into something we rushed through instead of shared.

I remember not knowing what was happening, only feeling it. That strange ache when love is still there but buried under distance, disappointment, and pain. But I also remember the slow, quiet rebuilding, and that's the love I want to build. Not perfect. But real. Chosen. Again and again.

So when I slide the ring back into its box, I feel sure.

Sure of Carissa. Sure of myself.

Sure of the 온라인카지노게임 I come from and the one I'm about to begin...

*

My name is Jimmy.  I'm learning—every day—how to become a good husband. Not just the kind who shows up with flowers on anniversaries, but the kind who listens, who apologizes when he's wrong, who knows that love is a verb, not just a feeling.

I'm becoming that man because I watched my dad make wrong decisions.. and then stay long enough to fix them. I watched him lose himself for a while but I also watched him come back. I watched him choose us, every single day, even when it was hard. Even when we didn't make it easy.

I'm becoming that man because I watched my mom carry pain quietly for years, never loud or dramatic, but heavy all the same. She bore it with a strength that didn't announce itself with fanfare, but with a steady, unyielding resolve. I saw her stand up for herself after a while, slowly but surely refusing to fall back into the old habits and patterns that had trapped them both.

She became fierce in a new way, strong not just for us, but for herself. She chased down her dreams building a life that was hers and hers alone, piece by deliberate piece; and through it all, she made my dad work for it in a way that made him prove every day that he was worthy of her trust again.

I saw him change, because she never settled. She pushed him gently, demanded more than words, asked for the man she needed, not the man he used to be. Watching that taught me what love really means not just a feeling, but a choice. A continuous effort. A fight worth having.

That's who I want to be. The kind of man who holds steady under pressure, who knows the weight of silence and still shows up anyway. The kind of man who doesn't take love for granted, who knows it's earned over and over again, in small moments as much as big ones.

Because I watched my mom—my warrior queen—carry pain and refuse to let it break her.

I am Jimmy.

And I grow because I was raised in the wreckage and the rebuilding. I grew in the spaces between silent tears and slow forgiveness, between teary apologies and second chances.

I am Jimmy.

 I come from a family that taught me how to fall and get back up. A family that turned hard years into healing. A family that still shows up at dinner even if they argued over who left the fridge open. Now, I get to take everything I've learned, the good, the broken, the beautiful, and build something new. With someone I love.

A future that's ours. A future that I'll fight for, just like they did.

Because I am Jimmy.

And I was raised to love with both hands.