Lunch was… surprisingly lovely.
A little noisy, a little fraught—but gentle in all the right places.
We sat together, shared food, and found a rhythm.
Tilly was still carrying the weight of a restless morning,
Luca was full of beans as ever—
but there were smiles. There was warmth.
And for a little while, we were just us.
Tilly had a proper roast dinner.
Joel tucked into a Yorkshire pudding wrap.
Luca ordered a hotdog and chips, but left the hotdog untouched—classic.
And I just watched them all breathe a little softer,
even if the calm came in short bursts between ketchup squirts and napkin rescues.
It wasn’t picture-perfect, but it was something better:
real, loud, kind.
They were like siblings today.
Not just in play, but in the way they moved around each other.
Tilly watched over him,
and Luca looked at her like she’d hung the stars.
No one demanded perfection.
They just… fit.
The beach came next—
though the wind chased us off Vazon.
So we followed the breeze to Les Amarreurs.
The universe said not here, and we listened.
There, on the sand, the magic landed.
Tilly stretched out like she’d finally stopped holding her breath.
Luca dug trenches and launched his rockets,
his whole body humming with delight.
Tilly showed him how to keep water in his moat—
with seaweed, naturally.
And Luca looked at her like she was teaching him the secrets of the universe.
They didn’t really play together, not in the traditional sense.
But they danced in orbit—
close enough to feel each other’s joy.
We sat in the quiet.
In the warmth.
Not as visitors in each other’s lives,
but as something more.
Something quietly sacred.
Waffles followed at the park.
Sticky fingers, tangled hair,
Tilly clinging to me like she hadn’t in years.
Luca darted between the swings and slides,
light pouring from him in every direction.
And for once, I wasn’t watching the clock—
just the sky, the kids, the way Joel looked at all of us like we were already home.
Later, we stopped at Joel’s parents’ house.
Tilly tinkered on the piano.
Luca raced through the garden.
No tension. No pressure. Just breath.
And then, the pools.
Tilly, Joel, and I waded in together.
She tried out her snorkel—half curious, half cautious.
I floated. Joel bobbed beside me.
We didn’t say much.
Didn’t need to.
The water was warm. The moment enough.
Home was salt-drenched hair and chips eaten straight from the bag,
Billie curled up on the sofa like she’d always belonged there,
and Final Destination: Bloodlines flickering on the telly—
so bad, it made us laugh until we forgot why we’d been tired in the first place.
No haunting. No horror.
Just softness.
Just silliness.
Just us.
Later, the house fell still.
Tilly was asleep upstairs.
Joel was beside me.
And the weight I’d been carrying felt a little lighter.
I hadn’t expected the day to heal anything—
but somehow, it did.
Not with fireworks or grand gestures,
but with rockets made of plastic, sun-warmed water,
waffles, and a quiet string of moments
stacked gently like stones.
It was the day the house had been full of light.
And I carried it with me—still do.