Michael paused. Then he slowly nodded.
He stepped forward and hugged her. Eleanor held her grandson close and wept. For the first time, she was crying not from grief, but from relief.
November was surprisingly warm. David sold one of his restaurants and cut his workday down to eight hours. He now came home by five p.m., like a normal father. Vera stayed on, but her job title changed.
Not a nanny, but a family educator. And she no longer lived in a rented apartment, but in the guest room of the Solomons’ condo. It was more convenient for everyone. Eleanor started visiting from Boston every other week. She brought gifts, but now they were toys, not textbooks. She took Michael for walks, learned ASL from online tutorials, and she tried.
It wasn’t always perfect. Sometimes she slipped into old habits, started demanding, controlling. But Michael would patiently sign to her, “Grandma, I won’t break, I promise.” And she was learning to let go. One Saturday, David, Vera, and Michael drove out of the city. To a small town in Wisconsin where Vera’s parents lived.
Her mother, Susan, greeted them with fresh-baked pies and joyful tears.
“So this is your boy,” she said, hugging Michael. “What a handsome young man!”
Michael blushed but smiled.
Vera’s father, Robert, a quiet man with kind eyes, showed Michael his workshop where he carved wooden toys. The boy stood in awe, looking at the shelves filled with figures of animals, cars, and birds.
“Like them?” Robert signed. Vera had taught her parents the basics.
Michael nodded.
“Pick any one you want.”
The boy walked along the entire shelf. He stopped in front of a figure of a phoenix, intricately carved, with outstretched wings, as bright as fire.
“This one?”
Robert took the figure down and handed it to Michael.
“It’s yours.”
That evening, they sat around the table. David, Vera, Michael, and Vera’s parents. They drank tea, ate pie, and talked. Vera interpreted for Michael. The boy laughed at his grandfather’s jokes. He tried the jam his grandmother had made especially for him. David looked at the scene and felt something he hadn’t felt in years.
He was home. Not in a condo with marble floors and designer furniture. But home. Where it was warm. Where he was accepted. Where he was loved.
Vera caught his eye. She smiled.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That happiness is simple. Much simpler than I thought.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “We’re the ones who make it complicated.”
Michael came over to his father. He climbed onto his lap. He signed:
“Dad, can we come here again?”
“Of course. Whenever you want.”
“And will Vera stay with us? Forever?”
David looked at Vera. She blushed and looked down.
“That’s up to Vera,” he replied.
Michael turned to her.
“Vera, will you stay?”
She looked up. She looked at the boy, then at David. Her eyes held so much. Hope, fear, love.
“I’ll stay,” she said quietly. “If you want me to.”
“We do,” Michael said, hugging her.
David reached out his hand. He covered her hand with his.
“We really do.”
Vera’s parents exchanged a smile. Susan discreetly wiped away a tear.
March arrived with the first hint of warmth. The snow melted, revealing the black earth. The Lincoln Park condo had undergone some changes. The white walls were painted a warm beige. Photographs were hung: Michael with Vera, Michael with David, all of them together. Toys appeared on the shelves.
Not expensive, designer toys, but ordinary ones, worn from play. The condo was no longer a museum. It had become a home. One Saturday, David, Vera, and Michael drove to the lake house David had bought in Michigan. A small wooden cabin with a yard where they could dig in the dirt, plant flowers, and just breathe.
After a rain shower, the three of them went outside. The ground was wet, muddy, and perfect for sculpting.
“Should we make something?” Vera asked.
Michael nodded enthusiastically.
They sat right on the ground. David in old jeans he didn’t mind getting dirty. Vera in a simple dress. Michael in a t-shirt and shorts.
They made birds. A whole flock of them: crooked, uneven, and beautiful. Michael made a phoenix, as always. David made a stork, because Vera said storks bring happiness. Vera made a sparrow, small and humble.
When they were done, they lined the figures up on the porch to dry in the sun.
“They’re beautiful,” Michael signed.
“Very,” David agreed.
Vera looked at the birds, at the man and the boy beside her, at her own muddy hands, and smiled.
“You know,” she said, “my brother Nick used to say that when he grew up, he would become a bird so he could fly out of his cage.” Her voice trembled. “He never got the chance to grow up.”
“But I think… I think he’d be happy now.”
“Happy that Michael is growing up free. That he’s not in a cage.”
David put an arm around her shoulders.
“Thank you for getting us both out.”
“It wasn’t me, you did it yourselves. I just showed you the door.”
Michael climbed onto his father’s lap. He signed:
“Dad, can Mom see us?”
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