Easter...
The house had the distinct ambiance of a place that had recently been purchased by people who underestimated how many objects are required to appear functional.
Matt stood in the living room, which was technically also the dining room, office, and, in moments of emotional honesty, a large box. He held a mug that said Intercourse, PA. It had come from a thrift store and now represented 50% of their drinkware.
“Do we own forks?” he asked.
Jamie’s voice floated in from the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by approximately three feet and a shift in flooring texture.
“We own a fork,” she said. “I’m using it.”
Matt nodded. This tracked.
He adjusted the Patagonia quarter-zip he’d been wearing for so long it had begun to feel like skin. At six-foot-something and built like an overambitious coat rack, he gave off the impression of someone who had been assembled quickly but with good intentions.
Today was Easter. Their first Easter in the new house. This had sounded meaningful when they said it out loud to other people, who nodded in a way that suggested they believed in milestones. In practice, it meant they were hosting two sets of parents in a home that contained one couch, no chairs, and a folding table that trembled under the weight of expectation.
Jamie entered, or more accurately, arrived.
At eight months pregnant, she moved with the careful determination of someone transporting a large, fragile object that happened to also kick her organs. She was small everywhere except for the part that wasn’t, which seemed to have its own gravitational pull.
“I can’t find anything, including my feet.” she said.
“We don’t have anything,” Matt replied.
“Right,” she said. “Then I can’t find that.”
Their son Charlie ran through the room at a speed that suggested he had somewhere important to be, despite lacking both shoes and a clear agenda. Blonde-haired, wide-eyed, and aggressively cheerful, he radiated the kind of joy usually reserved for people who have never had to assemble furniture.
“No!” he shouted, pointing at the wall.
“Fair,” Matt said.
Charlie laughed, deeply pleased with himself and, by extension, the universe.
—
Jamie’s parents were due at noon, which meant they would arrive sometime between 11:20 and 11:25, depending on how early they decided punctuality should begin.
At 11:19, there was a knock at the door.
Jamie didn’t look up.
“Of course,” she said.
Matt opened it to find her parents already mid-sentence.
“—and I said, if you’re going to mulch, you have to commit to the mulch—oh hi!”
They entered immediately, as if the conversation had right-of-way.
Her mother spotted Charlie.
“There’s my BABY!” she announced, at a volume typically used for maritime emergencies.
Charlie stared at her, then beamed.
“No!” he said.
“Yes!” she replied, lifting him. “No to everything!”
Her father turned slowly, surveying the room.
“Wow,” he said. “Look at all this… space.”
There was, undeniably, space. Vast, uninterrupted space. Space unburdened by furniture, decor, or purpose.
“We’re keeping it open,” Matt said.
“Mm,” her father nodded. “On purpose.”
Jamie lowered herself onto the couch, which made a noise that suggested it had opinions.
“Hi,” she said, already done.
Her mother kissed her forehead.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a planet,” Jamie said. “With weather.”
—
At noon, there was another knock.
Everyone paused, which felt optimistic.
Matt opened the door.
His mother stood there, holding a small box wrapped with the precision of someone who had not wrapped a gift in the presence of others for some time.
“Hello, Matthew,” she said.
“Hi, Mom.”
She stepped inside carefully, as if the house might have rules she hadn’t been briefed on.
Jamie’s parents turned in unison, their expressions shifting into polite surprise.
“Oh! Hello!” Jamie’s mother said, dialing herself down by only about 15%.
Matt’s mom nodded once.
“Hello.”
Charlie approached, as he did with all new people, like a small, confident diplomat.
“No,” he said.
Matt’s mom looked at him for a moment.
“Well,” she said, “that simplifies things.”
—
The meal was laid out on the folding table, which bowed slightly under the weight of ham, potatoes, and a casserole that appeared to involve marshmallows making poor life choices.
“Where should we sit?” Jamie’s father asked.
There was a silence that felt deserved.
Matt gestured vaguely.
“We can rotate,” he said.
And so they did, taking turns on the couch like a family participating in a mildly competitive waiting room.
Charlie moved freely between them, laughing, clapping, and rejecting various foods with unwavering consistency.
“No,” he said to the ham.
“No,” he said to the potatoes.
“No,” he said to the concept of sitting still.
At one point, he handed Matt’s mom a plastic egg.
She opened it.
Inside was a single Cheerio.
She considered this.
“Austere,” she said.
Matt coughed into his napkin.
—
Jamie leaned back, one hand on her stomach, which shifted in a way that suggested independent thought.
“I think the baby just tried to exit through my ribs,” she said.
“That’s normal,” her mother replied.
“It shouldn’t be,” Jamie said. “But here we are.”
Her father nodded.
“Strong baby.”
“Determined,” Matt added.
Jamie closed her eyes.
“I would like a baby who enjoys sitting quietly and respecting personal space.”
Charlie ran into the wall and laughed.
“Genetics say otherwise,” Matt said.
—
At some point, in a rare lull, Matt’s mom sat next to Jamie.
“You look uncomfortable,” she said.
“I am,” Jamie replied.
There was a pause, but not an awkward one. Just a quiet, unfamiliar kind.
Matt’s mom reached into her bag and took out a folded blanket.
“I made this,” she said, placing it on Jamie’s lap.
Jamie opened it.
It was soft, neatly stitched, and clearly the result of time spent doing something carefully and alone.
“Oh,” Jamie said, softer now. “Thank you.”
Matt watched from across the room, holding a plate and feeling something shift slightly, like the house gaining weight in a good way.
—
By early evening, the light had changed, stretching across the empty floors in a way that almost suggested intention instead of absence.
The dishes were stacked, the table leaned a little more than before, and Charlie had finally fallen asleep on Matt’s chest, his face relaxed into something angelic and misleading.
Jamie rested her head against Matt’s shoulder.
“That wasn’t terrible,” she said.
“High praise,” Matt replied.
She nodded.
“Corky.”
He smiled.
“Very corky.”
Across the room, their parents spoke more quietly now, as if the day had gently worn them down into better versions of themselves.
Matt looked around—the bare walls, the single couch, the almost aggressive lack of infrastructure—and felt, somewhat inconveniently, that it worked.
Not in a finished way. Not in a way that would impress anyone with chairs.
But in a way that felt solid. Or at least leaning in the right direction.
Charlie stirred slightly.
“No,” he murmured in his sleep.
Matt nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.”