“My goodness, come in! Come in! You don’t need to knock, just walk right in here.” Isabella’s mother emphatically waves us through her front door.

“Thank you for having us over, Mrs. Franco.” I hand her a bouquet of wild flowers and her eyes grow wide.

“Well, would you look at that, John. What a gentleman, bringing flowers. You’ve got a keeper there, Isabella.” She smiles.

“I know,” Isabella answers her distractedly.

Madison is clinging to her skirt in an attempt to hide from the unfamiliar faces and it’s nearly knocking Isabella over.

“Very nice.” Pastor John flits his eyes over the newspaper he’s reading. He hasn’t bothered to move from the couch to greet us. I have a feeling this isn’t going to go well.

“You can call me Shirley, by the way, Colt. There’s no need to be so formal with family.”

We follow her lead into the living room and take seats in the scattered, retro chairs around the room. Madison practically claws her way up into Isabella’s lap, which actually warms my heart to see, despite the fact she’s doing it out of fear.

“I hope you like ham, Colt,” Shirley announces nervously. “It’s Isabella’s favorite, so I made it for her. I figure there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal when you’re pregnant, right?” Her eyes dart over to Isabella, but she’s preoccupied with Madison.

“Yeah, sounds good, Mom,” she answers flatly.

“I don’t like strangers!” Madison pouts, hiding her face against Isabella’s chest.

“That’s okay. You can just look at me if you want,” Isabella answers her kindly, softly stroking her bouncy brown curls. “I’ll tell you what. How about we play ‘eye spy’? Does that sound like fun? I’ll start, okay? I spy with my little eye something that is brown.”

“Everything is brown!” Madison looks around the room, exasperated.

I stifle my laughter, but she’s right. This house definitely had it’s heyday in the seventies with the brown on brown decor.

Isabella’s father finally decides to acknowledge that we’re sitting in the room by neatly folding up the paper and laying it next to him on the end table.

“John, why don’t you chat with Colt while I go put these lovely flowers in some water and check on the ham,” Shirley directs her husband. From the pinched look on his face, I can tell he is only following orders to keep the peace.

“So, Colt, did you grow up in New York?” John asks me half-heartedly. His eyes can barely stay on my face long enough for me to answer, instead being pulled back to his daughter and Madison playing together across the room.

“No, sir. I was born and raised in Florida. I only moved to the city a few years ago for my job.”

I feel like I could’ve told him I’m an ex-convict and I’d get the same distracted nod of the head I’m getting now. Clearly, his attention is being divided between me and the tender scene unfolding between Isabella and Madison. I’d have to say they’re winning, and rightly so.

“Ah, Florida, huh? So, I take it you aren’t a Giants fan then?” He finally zones back in on me, a small smile beginning to twitch at the corners of his lips.

“Be careful,” Isabella interrupts, “it’s a trap. Dad thinks Sundays are for two things, God and football.”

“Is that right?” I glance over at her and give her a wink. “Well, then it’s a shame he’s stuck with two of the worst teams in the NFL here in New York.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but how many championships have the Jacksonville Jaguars taken, young man?” John sits up a little straighter on the couch and leans in toward me.

“Now you’ve done it,” Isabella groans loudly. “Come on, Madison, let’s go see if we can help Mom in the kitchen.” She carries my niece out on her hip, giving me a smile on her way out the door.

“Okay, you’ve got me with the Jaguars.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “But you’re forgetting we still have two more teams who dominate the league.”

“Dominate the league? Son, have you even watched a football game? Are we talking about the same sport?” he ribs me. “You know what, I know from experience there’s no sense that can be talked into a fan, so I’m gonna let this one go.” His eyes twinkle.

“Well, I appreciate that, sir. I wouldn’t want to insult a man’s team when he’s about to feed me.” I smile.

“Call me John, young man. Save the ‘sirs’ for the man who cuts your paycheck.” He leans back and rubs his eyes like he just woke up for a long afternoon nap. John rubs his hands down the legs of his black slacks. “You know, Colt”—he clears his throat loudly and runs his hand down the back of his hair—“I can see you’re a good kid. I’m sorry about the last time we met. I know I lost my temper there, and it didn’t make for a very good first impression.” He stares past me at the collection of family photos hanging on the wall.

“I appreciate that, John. However, if I’m honest, I really think it’s Isabella who deserves your apology more than me. If you don’t mind me saying, you were awfully hard on her.”

John nods but doesn’t respond. He just keeps looking at the photos of his family in a less complicated time. An era where Isabella and her sister still dressed up for Halloween and where John had less of a belly and more hair.

Th-wap! “Waaahhhhh!”

I jump to my feet as Madison’s cries fill the house.

“What happened?” I scurry into the kitchen. A chair is knocked over and Isabella is crouched down beside Madison on the floor. With a scraped knee, Madison is wailing like an ambulance as Isabella scoops her up and carries her over to the dining room table, sitting her in one of the seats.

“It’s just a little ouchie. It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you all fixed up here in no time.” Isabella soothes her, as Madison sniffles.

“Oh my goodness, this is my fault. She wanted to watch me at the counter, so I pulled a chair over here for her. I should’ve known better.” Shirley twists her hands up in the dishcloth she’s holding.

“Don’t worry about it. Kids fall. She’ll be fine,” I reassure her, but it doesn’t look like it’s working.

“Mom, stop fretting and get a Band-Aid, please,” Isabella directs her mother. “Would you like to help me be a doctor and put a Band-Aid on your knee, Madison?”

Still not entirely convinced this isn’t a life-threatening emergency, Madison sniffles a yes. As soon as Shirley returns with a box of Band-Aids, her eyes light up and her tears evaporate.

“Stickers?” she asks gleefully, quickly forgetting the small cut on her knee.

“Sort of. You’ve used these before, remember?” Isabella quickly wipes down the injured knee with a clean cloth and pulls a Band-Aid from the box. Once she has it securely fastened to one side of the scrape she looks up at Madison. “Oh, this is a big job for one person. Do you think you can help me attach this on the other side?” Guiding Madison’s hand to the sticky side, they flatten the Band-Aid down over her knee.

“I all better now!” Madison smiles with tears still drying on her cheeks. It’s amazing how children can have such big, conflicting emotions within seconds.

Isabella looks up to see she has an audience. Her parents and I are all watching from the doorway as she patches up the minor injury and saves the day. Madison suddenly realizes she’s the center of attention and jumps off the seat, ready to impress. “Wanna see me dance?” She doesn’t wait for a response, bouncing around in a circle with her arms shaking.

“Wow, now those are some moves.” Shirley relaxes a little and enjoys watching the toddler put on a show.

I look over at John, but his attention is firmly fixed to his daughter. His eyes have softened as he wordlessly watches her.

“Okay, well, this wasn’t how I wanted to start our dinner.” Shirley points in the direction of the Band-Aids. “However, the food is ready, if everyone wants to dig in.”

“I sit with Isabella!” my niece exclaims, stopping dead in her tracks and clinging back onto Isabella’s leg.

“Sure, you can help me cut up my ham. I need a big girl to help me out.” Isabella smiles.

“I a big girl.” Madison puffs her chest out proudly.

Taking our seats at the table, everyone passes the food around until all the plates are full. I pick up my fork and knife to dig in, and the family stares at me in disbelief.

“Colt, we’re going to say grace,” Isabella hisses at me, bowing her head over her folded hands.

Madison follows her example and hangs her head over too, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

I drop my cutlery and look down.

John begins, “Lord, I would like to thank You for this food that we are blessed to eat while others struggle to fill their belly. We are thankful for Your grace and hope we can share Your example here on earth. Heavenly Father, I would like to especially thank You tonight for bringing my daughter home to me, and with her a beautiful family of her own. Thank You for giving us, for giving me”—his voice trembles—“the opportunity to seek salvation and share our love. Amen.”

“Amen,” we mumble into our hands.

I peer over at Isabella, whose eyes are misty as she watches her father across the other end of the table.

“I bet you’re going to have a little girl,” Shirley intrudes on the moment, cutting her ham up into tiny chunks. “Wouldn’t that be funny, John? Let me tell you”—she changes her focus to me—“you’re gonna have your hands full if you have another girl. Won’t they, John? Two girls is a lot to handle.” She smiles before popping a piece of ham into her mouth.

“They’re gonna do just fine,” John answers. “Isabella, you’re going to make a great mother,” he tells her softly. Isabella’s eyes tear up as she listens to her father. “I’ve seen you with this little one today”—he points his fork in Madison’s direction—“and if you ask me, you’re already doing a fine job.”

“Thank you, Dad.” Isabella smiles.

The weight of the world slides off her shoulders as she straightens up in her seat. As everyone at the table focuses on digging into the delicious meal, I still can’t pry my eyes off of Isabella. Her father is right. She’s going to make a great mother.

A great mother and a perfect wife.