Four hours later, still looped around my finger, is a plastic ring—a silver-dollar-sized image of wide-eyed Stitch, the Disney character. I was tasked with safekeeping it after it had been plunged into a cupcake, while Evelyn played in the pool with the birthday girl.
I’m used to Evelyn’s conflicts with Emma, the girl two doors down. The squabbles over toys, who goes first—they’re a dime a dozen. I usually tune them out and remind Evelyn it’s up to her to work through it. But today was different. There were other girls around their age, and the dynamic shifted—competition began to creep in. I ended up with a crying Evelyn in my lap after Emma told her she couldn’t play.
My heart broke—probably more than hers. This cross-country move was meant to bring us community, closeness, and stability. In that moment, I felt the sting of rejection, the “move along” energy, and the accompanying ache. For a split second, I wanted to burn it all down.
But then, as Evelyn sat in my lap, Emma looked over and asked, “What’s wrong, Evelyn?” That tiny question helped me shift back into calm. I helped Evelyn share her feelings and encouraged them to play together again. And they did—a lot.
It’s not even 7 p.m., and Evelyn is already asking for bed. Dave’s on book-reading and tuck-in duty, so I’m watching family members across the way in the garden, occasionally catching a glimpse of a mockingbird flitting around the tree in front of me.
The weight of the move hits me square between the eyes. As if it has to succeed, or I’ve failed. Funny—just the other night, Dave said something similar. That because he’s from here, it feels like this was his doing. Even though it was mutual. And hard.
Now, more often than not, I feel the ties between back home and here. I feel stable. We’ve built something—this home, Ms. Lita, the libararian with her big hugs for Evelyn, the co-op homeschool group, the holidays, and impromptu dinners with family.
Last week, Dave and I were out of options for feeding Evelyn. She’d eaten, but was being picky about what was next. “Go to your aunt’s,” I told her. She put on her shoes and tromped through the field, even as they were late heading out the door for an event. Four minutes later, their van pulled into our drive, dropping her off like a borrowed book returned to the shelf.
Little Richard was born and raised just 30 minutes from here. Macon—a troubled yet proud town—is where we go for groceries, hardware, and the movie theater. It’s also where we’re headed tomorrow for a little getaway. Dave’s brother offered us a hotel stay using 35,000 points that were about to expire. No big occasion, just a free suite with a kitchen, pool, and continental breakfast. We’ll take it.
The storm is knocking. As I typed that last paragraph, the air shifted—temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and a band of clouds rolled in like cavalry. The hammock sway turned tense. A lightning bolt cracked, and thunder followed two seconds later—too close for comfort. I grabbed the ferns, hauled in the birdseed, and came inside.
Time to watch the show.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 