By ten o'clock that morning, the Bellamy sisters had completely lost their minds. Martie was the first to say it.“I think we're overreacting.” Vivian looked up from the kitchen table. “We are not.” Lou was standing on a chair hanging a banner. “We're definitely overreacting.” Martie pointed at her. “Thank you.” Lou nodded. “But I think we should do more.” Martie sighed. “There it is.” Vivian looked toward the window. “Art's daughter is coming.”
“I know.”
“His daughter is coming.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“His daughter, whom he hasn't seen in three years, is coming to visit.”
“I know.”
Vivian clasped her hands. “We need to make the house welcoming.”
Martie looked around. “What exactly do you think we've been doing?” Lou jumped down from the chair. “We could make a welcome basket.”
“No.”
“Flowers?”
“No.”
“Cake?”
“No.”
“Pie?”
Martie hesitated. “Maybe.”
Vivian smiled. “Definitely.”
Martie glared at her. “You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Lou pulled a notepad from her pocket. “I have ideas.”
“Of course you do.”
Lou began writing. “Fresh flowers. Cookies. A welcome sign. Maybe balloons.”
“No balloons.”
“A cake.”
“Maybe.”
“A pie.”
“Yes.”
“Confetti.”
“No.”
“Glitter?”
“Absolutely not.”
Lou sighed “People hate joy.”
Across the street, Art was pacing. He had been pacing for nearly an hour. Hank watched him from the floor. “You think I should call her?” Hank wagged his tail. “I already called her.” Hank blinked. “She said she'd be here around noon.” Hank wagged his tail again. Art nodded. “That's what I thought.”
He walked to the window. Then back to the kitchen. Then to the living room. Then back to the kitchen. He straightened a chair. Then another. Then moved the first chair back. He looked at the clock. 11:17. He sighed. “I've got time.” He checked the clock again. 11:18.
“Not enough.” He walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. Stared at his clothes. He pulled out a blue shirt. Put it on. Looked in the mirror. Took it off. Put on a white shirt. Stared at himself. “No.” Back to the blue shirt. He sighed. “What am I doing?” Hank wandered into the room. Art looked at him. “Do I look nervous?” Hank sat down. Art nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled. “You're right.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I am nervous.”
At 11:42, the Bellamy sisters took their positions. Vivian stood on the porch. Martie stood behind her. Lou stood in the flower bed. Martie frowned. “Why are you in the flowers?” “I wanted a good view.” “Get out,” scolded Martie. Lou started to protest. “But—” Martie quickly cut he off. “Lou.” Lou reluctantly climbed out. Vivian adjusted her hair. “How do I look?” Martie stared at her. “Like you're waiting for the president.” “I want to make a good impression,” smiled Vivian. Martie, rolling her eyes, replied, “She isn't meeting you.” “She will,” laughed Vivian.
Lou walked over. “What if she doesn't like us?” Martie laughed. “That's impossible.” Lou looked serious. “What if she doesn't like Art?” The sisters went quiet. That was the question none of them had said aloud. Vivian looked across the street. Art stood on his porch. He looked nervous. Very nervous. “He'll be okay,” Martie said. Lou nodded. “I hope so.”
At 12:07, a car pulled into Art's driveway.
Art stopped breathing. The driver's door opened. A woman stepped out. She was in her forties, with brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She stood beside the car for a moment. She looked at the house. Then at the porch. Then at the front door.
Art opened it. Neither moved. Three years of silence stood between them. Emily's eyes filled with tears. “Dad?” Art swallowed. “Hi, Em.” She laughed through the tears. “You look old.” Art smiled. “So do you.” She laughed. Then she walked toward him. For one second, Art wasn't sure what to do. Then Emily threw her arms around him. Art held her. Tightly. He closed his eyes. And suddenly he was no longer seventy-nine. He was a father again. He buried his face in her hair. “I missed you.” Emily cried against his shoulder. “I missed you too.” They stood there for a long time.
Across the street, Vivian dried her tears. Martie reached for her hand. Lou was crying openly.
Then Emily pulled away. She looked at her father. “You really do look old.” Art laughed. “I've been busy.” “With what?” Art glanced across the street. Emily followed his gaze. Three women stood on the porch. All three waved. Emily smiled. “Are those them?” Art sighed. “Yes.” “The neighbors?” asked Emily. “Yes.”
“Let me guess which one is Vivian,” laughed Emily. Art's eyebrows rose. “She called you?” Emily laughed. “She called me three times.” Art closed his eyes. “Of course she did.”
Emily crossed the street. Vivian stepped forward. “You must be Emily.”
“Yes.”
Vivian hugged her. Emily laughed. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, honey. We've heard all about you.” Art called from across the street. “Vivian!” She turned. “What?”
“You said you wouldn't tell her everything.”
“I didn't.”
“You told her something.”
“I told her enough.”
Emily smiled. “I like her.” Art shook his head. “That's how they get you.” Martie came forward. “I'm Martie.” Emily smiled. “Dad talks about you.” Martie looked surprised. “He does?” Art immediately called out. “I do not.” Emily laughed. “You told me she makes good biscuits.” Martie looked pleased. Art frowned. “I said nothing of the sort.”
“You did.”
“I didn't.”
“You did.”
Lou stepped forward. “And I'm Lou.” Emily smiled. “I've heard about you too.” Lou's eyes widened. “You have?” Emily nodded. “Dad said you talk to animals.” Lou looked at Art. “You told her?” Art shrugged. “She asked.” Emily laughed. “I think we're going to get along.” Lou smiled. “Me too.”
That afternoon, the four of them sat on Art's porch. Martie brought food. Vivian brought flowers. Lou brought a board game. Art looked at it. “What is that?” “A family activity,” smiled Lou. Art grumbled, “We don't need an activity.” Emily picked it up. “I love this game.” Art looked at her. “You do?” “Yes,” replied Emily. He smiled. “Your mother used to love it.” Emily's expression softened. “I remember.”
For a moment, silence settled over the porch. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was full. Emily looked at the garden. At Percival. At the birdhouse. At Gerald sitting in the window. She laughed. “What happened here?” Art smiled. “Don't ask.” Lou raised her hand. “I can explain.” “No,” Art said. “Yes,” Lou said. Martie interrupted. “Eat your pie.”
Emily took a bite. Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh.” Martie smiled. “Good?” “This is incredible,” said Emily. Art nodded. “She makes the best pie.” Martie looked at him. “You said it.” “I did,” laughed Art. Vivian laughed. Lou whispered to Emily. “He's getting soft.” Art heard her. “I heard that.” Emily smiled. “I think it's good.” Art looked at his daughter. “What?” “You being soft.” He stared at her. She smiled. “I like you better this way.” Art looked down. His eyes filled. Emily reached over and took his hand. “I missed this.”
“What?”
“This.” She looked around. “Being here.” Art squeezed her hand. “I did too.”
That evening, after Emily went to bed, Art sat alone on his porch. The house was quiet again. But it was different. He could hear Emily moving upstairs. Opening drawers. Putting things away. The ordinary sounds of someone who belonged there. He smiled.
Then he looked across the street. The sisters were still awake. Lou saw him. She waved. Art waved back. Then Vivian called across the street. “You all right?” Waving, Arthur called out, “Yes.”
“Happy?” asked Vivian. Art thought about it. Then smiled. “Yes.” He looked up at the upstairs window. A light was on. Emily was there. His daughter was in his house. After three years. He whispered, “Thank you.” Vivian couldn't hear him. But she knew. She placed her hand over her heart.
Later, Emily came downstairs. She found her father sitting in the dark. “Dad?” He turned. “Couldn't sleep?” “No.” She sat beside him. Neither spoke for a while. Then Emily said, “I was angry with you for a long time.” “I know.” “I thought you didn't love me.” Art closed his eyes. “I never stopped.” “I know that now.” He looked at her. “I was wrong.” She nodded. “I was wrong too.” “No, I was the parent," said Art. Emily shook her head. “We both said things.” “I should have called.” “I should have called too.” Art looked at her. “You wrote to me.” She smiled. “You didn't answer.” “I was scared.” “Of what?” He looked toward the window. “That you'd tell me you were done with me.” Emily reached for his hand. “I never was.” Art's eyes filled. “I'm sorry.” “I know.” “No. I mean it.” “I know.” He squeezed her hand. “I love you.” Emily smiled. “I love you too.” Then she leaned her head against his shoulder. Art rested his cheek against her hair. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Three years of silence had ended with a few simple words. I love you.
Across the street, the Bellamy sisters' lights slowly went out. One upstairs. Then another. Then the kitchen. But the porch light stayed on. Because somewhere in that little house across the street, three women knew something important had happened. A family had found its way back to itself. And sometimes that was the greatest kind of birthday gift there was. Art looked toward the porch light. He smiled. Then he looked at his daughter. “Your mother would have liked them.” Emily smiled. “I think she would have.” Art nodded. “She'd probably have fit right in.” Emily laughed. “Oh, definitely.”
Art laughed too. And for the first time in three years, father and daughter laughed together. The sound drifted through the open window. And somewhere in the quiet of the night, Art could almost hear Margaret laughing with them.