Chapter 10 - Under the Northern Stars
Six months later, summer had settled warmly over the city.
The balcony of our apartment was transformed into a miniature observatory. On clear June nights, Max dragged a folding chair out onto the concrete slab, set up his telescope with practiced ease, and spent hours mapping the craters of the moon and tracking the rings of Saturn.
Lily had advanced so rapidly on her digital piano that her school music teacher had recommended her for a regional youth recital scholarship—an achievement she had earned entirely through her own dedication and those endless hours practicing in the school auditorium.
We had received a formal, heavily edited, lawyer-vetted letter of apology from my mother through the mail back in March. It was stiff, formal, and devoid of genuine warmth, but it carried a crucial subtext: she understood that the old rules no longer applied. She knew that if she ever tried to pull another stunt like Operation Gratitude, she wouldn't just lose access to holidays; she would lose her family permanently.
We hadn't spoken to her since January, and frankly, the silence was golden.
On a warm Friday evening in June, the three of us drove out to a quiet state park about thirty miles outside the city, far away from the city lights, for a proper stargazing expedition.
We laid out a thick wool blanket on a grassy knoll overlooking a tranquil lake. The sky above was a vast, glittering ocean of stars, stretching out into infinite depths.
Max was kneeling beside his telescope, adjusting the focus knob with intense concentration.
“Dad! Lily! Come here! Look at Jupiter! You can see the four moons!” he shouted excitedly, waving us over.
Lily hopped up from the blanket, jogging over to take her turn peering through the eyepiece, gasping in delight as she spotted the tiny celestial bodies orbiting the giant planet.
I lay back on the blanket, staring up at the sweeping arch of the Milky Way galaxy glowing softly overhead. The cool summer breeze rustled the tall grass around us, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
Lily walked back over, sat down beside me, and leaned her head against my shoulder. Max soon joined us, stretching out on the other side, pointing up at a bright constellation overhead.
“Dad?” Max asked softly.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Do you think astronauts ever feel lost when they’re out there in space?”
I smiled, wrapping my arms around both of my children, pulling them close against the vast, beautiful expanse of the summer night.
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“Maybe for a little while, Max,” I said quietly, looking up at the endless sea of stars. “But as long as you know where home is, you’re never really lost at all.”
And for the first time in our lives, we were exactly where we were supposed to be.
