Oakley, a fair skinned boy with blond hair to match and eyes so blue the ocean is jealous, runs wildly around the kitchen island, a sticky can of lemonade in his dirty hands. I reach to cover the corner of the granite counter top just in time to save his skull. I keep it there as his brother, a dark skinned boy with a head of similarly colored curls that bounce as he runs, soon follows.

With my hand to protect their faces from the corner, they run past unscathed.

"Oakley! That's not fair, you got the last Dr. Pepper! I want the last lemonade!" Arlo, the boy with the voluminous curls, can be heard shouting from somewhere in the dining room.

A dining room, I might add, that my mother never let myself or my brother go into except for special occasions, like the major holiday parties they still like to throw.

I'm still scared to walk too heavily in that dining room, the rattle of Mom's good china triggering my fight-or-flight response to this day.

"Boys!" Mom - my mom, their grandmother - shouts at them without even looking up, her focus intent on the homemade pizza she is currently shoving into the oven. "Split the lemonade into two cups or neither one of you will get it!" More shouting from the dining room follows, and Mom adds "Or dessert!"

Suddenly, two boys, each seven years old, are in the kitchen with us, eyes big like saucers. "No dessert?" Arlo asks, just as Oakley whines, "But your cookie dough cheesecake is my favorite!"

Hands on her hips, Mom turns to her grandsons and raises a brow. "Maybe if you ask nicely your aunt will pour you some of that lemonade over ice."

"He can have it, I don't want it anymore!" Oakley continues to complain as I reach into the cupboard and take out two plastic cups. They're exactly where they've always been - in fact, I think they belonged to my brother and me before they became the "grandkid cups."

"I said to share it." Mom tuts, turning back to the stovetop and the next ball of pizza dough she's going to knead.

"You better do what she says," I say, winking conspiratorially at them as Oakley hands over the lemonade. "Legend says, if you don't listen to her, she'll turn into a witch."

"A witch?" Arlo groans, eyeing his grandmother seriously. "But how do you know?" His brother speaks over him.

"Don't you trust Auntie Summer? I was a kid too once, you know. I saw the witchy side many times, just ask your Daddy." I smirk as Mom shoots me a dirty look over her shoulder, flour from the dough caked into her greying hair. Satisfied, I slide both boys a glass of warm lemonade.

Making my way to the freezer, I pop out several icecubes just as Ricky joins us in the kitchen.

"And speak of the devil," I mutter at his presence. "I was just telling Arlo and Oakley about how Mom turns into a witch when you don't do what she says. Go on, you two, ask him."

Ricky swats at me playfully. "Boys, don't mind your aunt. And definitely don't call your grandma a witch." He leans in close to my ear as he passes, "Are you trying to get them into more trouble, Sums? You know how Mom gets when we tell the truth."

Hiding my laughter, I plop the cubes into their cups and slide them each a napkin across the island. "Save some for dinner," I barely manage to say before they run from the room, splashing sticky lemonade on the floor as they go, saving none for dinner later.

"Ah, just in time for me, their personal disaster clean-up coordinator." The sassy remark comes from Dean, Ricky's husband, and Dad to Arlo and Oakley. How they decided who became Dad and who became Daddy, I've never asked, but somehow their chosen names suit them.

Ricky is fun and is always into things, making almost as big of a mess as the boys. And Dean, well, he's used to taking care of Ricky, and the switch to disciplinarian when they adopted the boys was an easy one to make.

Grabbing a towel from the counter, he cleans up the spilled drinks and gives me a quick hug. "Hey Summer. I know the school year just started and you're probably kiddo'd out, but mind taking in a couple more? Maybe indefinitely?"

"That bad, huh? Even though they're back in school most of the day? And then soccer practice after that? Or is it tuba lessons?" I smile warmly at my brother-in-law. I've liked him since I met him, the controlled counter part to Ricky's silly and at times reckless self. But he is definitely the parent to schedule his children down to the last minute, stacking one activity after another. Which suits the boys just fine, considering they take after Ricky in that they have about seven to ten new hobbies or interests every month. Dean makes sure they stick with the things they love. It all evens out.

Not for the first time, I'm jealous.

"Piano. And yes, soccer." Dean rolls his eyes but confirms, "But absolutely, that bad,"  just as Ricky stands beside him to lean into his shoulder.

"They're at each other's throats worse than we were, Summer." Ricky groans. "Just last year, they begged for bunk beds so they could sleep in the same room. Guess who no longer wants to share a bedroom?"

Immediately no longer jealous.

"Oakley?" I guess honestly, grabbing some shredded cheese from a bowl on the counter and popping it in my mouth. Oakley is usually the rougher of the two, whereas Arlo is more sensitive, more studious.

"You'd think that," Dean grunts, leaving Ricky to grab a beer from the fridge. "But it's actually the other."

"Arlo?" I gasp. Not Arlo, my chapter-book-reading, bumblebee-saving, auntie-snuggling Arlo. It can't be.

"Arlo." Ricky confirms, reaching for the pepperoni laid on a plate but receiving a smack to the hand from Mom instead. Giving her a look, he continues, "He said he's tired of Oakley's mess. He says he trips every night trying to go to the bathroom, because Oakley doesn't clean up his toys."

"What about a nightlight?" I suggest, knowing Oakley won't clean up unless bribed. Which gets expensive, given the kind of messes he can make and the frightening ability he has to drive a hard bargain.

"We can't have a night light." Dean sighs with his whole body. "Because Oakley says it keeps him awake at night."

"Ahh." I nod like I understand when I really don't. I can manage a classroom of preschoolers no problem, but parenting my own children? I've not had that issue. Balancing your own children's needs without making one feel unloved or like the lesser of the two? I glance towards my mom and know instantly that it's the hardest part of it all.

"Separate their rooms." She says without looking up, putting the last pizza - a pepperoni and sausage with smatterings of onion - into the oven and untying her apron. "And don't put them back when they ask again."

Then she walks past us all, using her pointer finger to tell me to follow.

I shrug at my brother, who shrugs at his husband, who shrugs like "Well, that settles it."

It usually does in this family.

Mom and I enter the sacred space of our dining room and I notice the sticky finger prints along the side of the table, so old it's almost antique. I wait for Mom to yell about the smudges, but she doesn't. She hardly seems to notice and I wonder what about being a grandparent makes a strict parent go soft.

Unpackaging some paper plates, she hands me a stack. "Boys will sit there," She points to the kids table pushed right beside the end of the big dining table. It's covered in one of those plastic primary-colored table cloths.

So maybe she has noticed the finger prints after all.

Nodding my head, I help her set the table, boys seats included, in relative quiet until she clears her throat.

"So all that talk of raising the boys in there..." She pushes a strand of greying auburn hair behind an ear, watching me as the sentence lingers.

I let it, without comment.

With a sigh, like I'm exasperating her with the same conversation we've had several times too many, she finally asks, "And how are you feeling?"

Once all the napkins are carefully placed, I face her head on, my arms folding over my chest. "About raising kids I don't have or in general, Mom?"

She only stares, her head cocked to the side like she cannot understand where my hostility is coming from. To be fair, it wasn't always like this. Hell, it wasn't even like this a year ago. If you'd asked me then who my best friend was, I would've pointed you in her direction. But ever since... Ever since Arden, I force myself to think his name, she's pushy and intrusive, when all I really need - all I really needed - was someone to sit with me while I was sad.

Heartbroken. Angry. Depressed, or whatever.

What I needed, was for her to stand by my side and decisions. Not to ask questions. Not to offer advice I didn't ask for. Not to tell me that if I had only prayed a bit harder...

I shake my head, all my depressing thoughts floating away with it. "I'm fine, Mom." I plaster a sunshine-y Miss Summer Davis smile on my face just as a hand presses between my shoulder blades. I repeat myself for the millionth time for them both, my dad, gray haired and wearing glasses now, suddenly at her side. "I'm fine, really."

"You can't blame us for worrying." Dad puts an arm around Mom's shoulders in an act of solidarity, like I've suddenly become the enemy. "It's just... We certainly didn't expect our gay son to give us grandchildren before our sunshine, is all."

I roll my eyes at how he says the word gay, like it's really necessary to the comment at all. Gay or straight, they probably didn't expect Ricky to have kids before me, period.

"That's super offensive, Dad. For a lot of reasons." I sigh with the repetition of it all. "And anyways, plans change sometimes."

"Not God's plan. If you'd just stay the course... You know, I've been talking to Pastor John and-" Dad is interrupted when Ricky stands right beside me, his arm brushing mine.

"And what did Pastor John say, Dad?" Ricky asks, his voice firm and unyielding. "Was it as helpful as when he told you I was just 'going through a phase?' That if I just prayed hard enough I'd stop, what'd he call it?" Ricky nudges me with his elbow, showing his support. "Oh right," He slaps his hand to his forehead dramatically. "Living in sin! Do you still think I'm a sinner, Dad? Mom? Or should I say Grandma and Grandpa?"

"Oh please," Mom eyes the ceiling. "You two, don't do this." She gestures between Dad and my brother. "We've been through this before, Ricky. We said we were wrong, we apologized. We love you, what more can we do?"

While they rehash their issues, Ricky winks at me, allowing me to slide out of the room to get some fresh air. Only because I know they truly have worked things out - my parents weren't willing to lose their son no matter what Pastor John said and eventually Ricky was able to express himself freely without any fear of judgement - I leave the dining room and head outside to the back deck.

Looking out into our yard, the tall forest behind it, I listen to the sound of crickets and yelling from the boys playing down below. Shame rushes through me at how I let Ricky step in and take our parents shit for me. Even now, I can hear him defining micro-aggressions with the patience of a saint, and it makes my shoulders tense.

The tension builds when I can no longer hear them at all. That means they're whispering, which means they're talking about me. About the decisions I've made. The decisions that led me here: single Summer, auntie Summer.

Not a wife. Certainly not a mother.

A rock sits heavy in my stomach.

Suddenly, for no logical reason I can think of, Parker's face flashes into my mind. His intense eyes rimmed in dark lashes, his sexy smirk and taunting dimples.

And I don't feel an ounce of regret for the choices I've made. Guilt for not being what my parents hoped I would be? Drowning in it. But regret? Not a bit.

His kiss seared into my brain, flushing my cheeks, I want so badly to feel it again that I can't even bring myself to regret the secrets I've selfishly agreed to keep from him.

The night air wraps around me, my eager mind wishing it was Parker's touch instead, when I suddenly remember his friend Beau's conversation about someone named Maggie. Someone called Maggie who is mad at Parker.

Try as I might to push the spiraling thoughts from my mind, I can't help concluding that Maggie is a woman, and I can't help from wondering exactly who she is to him. What she's mad at him for.

I'd been too distracted to ask.

The regret that was absent before finally seeps through me.

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