Chapter 5

Ariella

I felt a wave of warmth wash over me, a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in a long time. For once, everyone I loved was here, all in one place, like the universe had given me a second chance to love them the way they deserved. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible—like my heart was too full to hold it all.

From the kitchen, I could hear the soft clatter of pans and the sizzle of something frying. My mom was there, humming a tune under her breath as she worked, her movements graceful and deliberate, like she’d done this a million times before. It was her way of showing love—through the small, thoughtful things she did every day.

And then there was my dad. He was right behind her, practically glued to her side. His hand rested lightly on her waist as if afraid to let go. Every time she moved to grab something, he moved with her, a silent shadow. He wasn’t helping, not really—just hovering, smiling, watching her with a look of such pure adoration that it made my chest ache. It was like he wanted the whole world to see how much he loved her, to make it clear that she was his world.

“Maxwell, you’re in my way,” Mom said, glancing over her shoulder with a mock-stern look. But even as she tried to sound annoyed, I could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m not in your way,” Dad replied with a playful grin, tightening his arm around her waist for a moment before letting her go. “I’m helping.”

“Helping?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow as she flipped a pancake onto a plate. “You haven’t done a thing except distract me.”

“That’s my job,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Keeping you smiling while you do everything else.”

I couldn’t help but laugh softly at the scene. It was such a small, everyday moment, but it felt like everything I’d ever wanted to see in a family—love that wasn’t loud or showy but steady and unwavering. The kind of love that filled a room just by being there.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the sounds of their voices, the smells of breakfast, and the warmth of the moment wash over me. For once, I wasn’t caught up in worries or regrets. I was just here, surrounded by the people I loved, feeling like I’d finally found my place again.

My brother Alex and I grew up watching the kind of love that people dream about—the kind we knew we deserved someday and the kind we hoped we’d be able to give in return. It was like living inside the best love story ever written, unfolding right in front of us every day.

Our parents didn’t just love each other; they lived that love in the smallest, most meaningful ways. It wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect moments—it was the way Dad always poured Mom’s coffee before his own, or how she’d instinctively reach for his hand when they walked anywhere. It was the way they could argue about the silliest things, but still smile at each other like they were sharing a secret no one else could understand.

They taught us, without ever saying a word, what real love looked like—patient, steady, imperfect, but unshakably true. Watching them was like having front-row seats to the greatest lesson on how to care for someone, and it shaped everything about the way Alex and I saw the world.

We learned to believe that love wasn’t just something you stumbled upon; it was something you nurtured, something you gave wholeheartedly and with no strings attached. Seeing that every day made us promise ourselves that when we found love, we’d make sure it looked like theirs—real, enduring, and full of the kind of warmth that could turn a house into a home.

I always believed that if I ever fell in love, it would have to be with someone like my father. Not because he was perfect, but because of the way he loved—steady, selfless, and unwavering. He had this quiet strength about him, the kind that made you feel safe just by being near him.

It wasn’t about grand romantic gestures or fancy words with him; it was in the little things he did every day. The way he looked at my mom, as if she was the only person in the room, even when there were a hundred others. The way he never let a single day go by without making her laugh, even during the toughest moments. The way he supported her—not just with words, but with actions, showing up every time it mattered.

I wanted that kind of love. Someone who wouldn’t just tell me they loved me but would show it in a million quiet, meaningful ways. Someone who could make me feel seen and valued, the way my dad made my mom feel.

Maybe it was a high standard to set, but it was the only one I knew. Watching my parents all these years had taught me that love wasn’t just about falling; it was about staying. And if I ever found someone like that, someone with my father’s heart, I knew I’d never let them go.

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