David froze. It was the first time in three years Michael had asked about his mother.
“I think so, yes.”
“And is she happy?”
“Very happy, because you’re happy.”
Michael nodded and was quiet for a moment. Then he added:
“I think Mom sent Vera to us so we wouldn’t be sad.”
Vera choked back a sob. David pulled them both closer.
His son and the woman who had become more than a nanny. She had become family.
They sat on the porch, muddy, damp, and happy. The clay birds dried in the sun. And in the sky, real birds were returning from the south, calling out, celebrating spring, freedom, and life.
Michael started school. A regular, inclusive school where children with different needs learned together.
The first few months were hard. Teasing, misunderstanding, fear. But David picked him up every day himself. They would walk, talk, and he would offer his support. Vera helped with homework. She didn’t do it for him, but taught him how to manage it on his own. By the end of the year, Michael had made friends. Two boys from his class learned sign language to communicate with him.
His teacher praised him for his diligence and kindness. Eleanor visited more often. She learned enough ASL to have conversations with her grandson. They took walks together. She told him about Kate, about what his mother was like, what she loved, what she dreamed of. Michael would listen and cry. But they were good tears. Tears of light.
In December, David proposed to Vera. No fancy restaurants, no bouquets of a hundred roses, no orchestra. Just one evening, after Michael was asleep, in the kitchen where they had first met.
“Vera, you made me a father. A real father. Will you make me a husband, too?”
She looked at him, at the ring in his hand. A simple silver band, no diamonds.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“And Michael?”
“He was the first one to tell me to propose. He said he wants you to be his mom. Officially.”
Tears streamed down Vera’s cheeks.
“Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
He slipped the ring on her finger.
They kissed in the same kitchen where she had taught him to make pancakes, where their story began. The wedding was in the spring, a small affair with close family and friends. Vera’s parents, Eleanor, a few of David’s friends, Vera’s colleagues. And Michael, as the best man, proud and happy. As the newlyweds kissed after their vows, the boy signed to all the guests:
“I’m not alone anymore. Now I have a real family.”
Eleanor cried into her handkerchief. But they were tears of joy.
The final scene. A summer evening. The lake house in Michigan. Four people are sitting on the porch: David, Vera (now his wife), Michael, and Eleanor. Before them is a garden they planted together. Tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries. And birds.
Dozens of clay birds that Michael had made all year. They are arranged around the yard, like a flock ready to take flight.
“You know what I’ve realized?” David looks at his son.
“What?” Michael asks with his hands.
“That real love isn’t afraid of a little dirt. It’s afraid of being sterile.”
Vera laughs. Eleanor shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
Michael stands up and walks to the edge of the porch. He raises his arms like wings.
“What are you doing?”
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