“There’s lots more cookies inside,” I assure them.

My husband puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. “Thank you for the cookies,” he says, kissing my cheek. “They’re good writing fuel.”

He’s been working on his first solo album, Out of the Blue, for several months. It’s a compilation of new and old acoustic songs he’s written that are much like the songs he used to play in the park with Acorn. Soft, dreamy, and a bit haunting.

“You’re welcome.” I smile, then shift my gaze to our five-year-old son, Noah. He’s sitting on the floor with Mickey in the far corner of the porch, humming to himself. He stares out the windows up at the sky, watching the clouds go by.

Daydreaming.

He has no interest in cookies today. Or breakfast. He completely ignored my offer of fruit or cereal or pancakes earlier, only wanting to sit with the dog, listen to his father and sister play music, and look at the sky. Getting him to eat lately has been difficult.

Evan leans closer to me, nudges his face into my hair and whispers in my ear. “He’s fine, baby. I promise.”

I hope so.

I wonder. And I worry.

Noah could be like Blue. Lost. Confused. Struggling with thoughts and voices. Afraid to ask for help—or worse—not knowing he needs help.

Or, he could just be a thinker. A quiet daydreamer. Like Evan is now.

So I watch him closely—maybe too closely, I admit.

Evan gives my hand a squeeze, then grabs an iced tea and a handful of cookies. My gaze lingers on him as he walks to the corner of the porch. His old, button-down blue jeans still fit him in a way that makes my insides flutter with desire. A few strands of gray streak his long hair that’s tied back today, accentuating his narrow jawline. He no longer tries to cover the faint, jagged scar on his cheek with his hair. I no longer think of that scar as a reminder he almost died. I think of it as a reminder he lived.

He sits crossed-legged next to our son, and Mickey immediately climbs into his lap. Noah nods at something Evan has said in a voice too soft for me to hear. He takes the glass of iced tea and sips it with an adorable grin that’s a mirror image of his father’s. My worry eases when Evan breaks a cookie in half and gives half to Mickey and half to Noah, who chews it and points up toward the sky. I’m sure he’s explaining a cloud figure in great detail, and Evan listens intently, while gently pushing Noah’s long hair out of his face.

He meets my gaze across the porch and winks at me, mouthing the words “I love you.” Smiling, I blow him a kiss back, before turning my attention to Lyric, who’s telling me about a guy she’s been seeing.

She thinks he’s the one. He’s complicated, she says, but she doesn’t care.

I understand. More than she knows.

I never wished for, or wanted perfect. I only wanted to love and be loved. I believe in the happy ending—for all of us.