Are They in New York?

Jeff, Erika, and I were sitting at supper in New York when all three of our phones got a DING—it was Liz.

Her daughter Eva had seen Erika’s then-and-now Facebook post featuring us. Beneath a screenshot of the post, Eva had sent her mother a question:

“are they in NY or she is Texas”

Liz’s assessment of the situation was considerably more colorful.

“Eva has clocked your shit and now she’s pissed.”

We cackled and raised our glasses. Erika responded into the text thread, “I’m sorry—I thought everyone knew… also I’m the only psycho who made sure I went to see them.”

It was all laughter and love around that table. But somewhere in the middle of it, I found myself touched by something I hadn’t expected.

Eva wanted to see us.

She’s a teenager now, beautiful and busy and fully involved in softball. Of course I knew she was growing up. Still, there was something about discovering that she was following along, noticing where we were, and asking questions that made me realize how much had changed.

We’ve lived in Texas for eight and a half years. When I think about Eva coming to see us here, I still picture that first Christmas.

That Christmas break, Liz and Kosta brought their girls, Meghan and Graham brought their boys, and Michael and Tamara brought theirs. Our new Texas home was about to receive six children who, for the most part, were growing up in the city.

At the entrance to our neighborhood, Castlegate, there’s a castle and a moat. The homes around the lake were dressed for Christmas, with lights and garland draped in loops along the wrought-iron fences. More lights continued through the neighborhood toward our house.

As they drove beneath the castle, Sam, who was about six, whispered to Tamara.

“Mom… can I say it?”

“What, baby?”

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

Texas had made an impression.

Once inside, the boys found the feather boas and sunglasses from that year’s Elton John tour, the cowboy hats, and the Crown Royal bag where we keep our spare coins. Within minutes, they were running through the house playing cops and robbers.

Apparently, we had supplied everything necessary.

Eva and her sister were a little older and more reserved. They took it all in with less commotion, though there was plenty to take in. We had a pool. The houses didn’t touch each other. There was space on every side, and the kids had a million questions.

The next morning, we got Shipley’s doughnuts, and I’d made kolaches—soft, slightly sweet bread wrapped around pieces of kielbasa. It was chilly outside, and our house was full of children discovering what life looked like where we lived now.

Eva and Graham both had birthdays to celebrate, so we decided they needed a Texas birthday lunch.

We took everyone to Rudy’s, where the big indoor picnic tables had red-and-white checkered coverings, the meat came by the pound on butcher paper, and the sides came by the pint or quart. Everything went in the middle for everyone to share.

We’d ordered felt cowboy hats for the kids, along with mustaches, sheriff’s stars, and handkerchiefs. Looking around that table was hilarious. Our little city mice had come to Texas, and we were giving them the full treatment.

Sweet tea was an immediate favorite.

Eva didn’t have much to say, but I hoped she felt special. She was away from home and her classmates on her birthday, and I wanted her to have something worth remembering. A cowboy birthday with that crew seemed like a pretty good place to start.

Later, we took everyone to Chuy’s. The grownups could have margaritas, and we could introduce them to another favorite spot. Jeff and I always sat at the bar and knew practically the entire bar staff.

That night, the restaurant was packed.

Before the adults could work our way through the crowd, all six children spotted three open stools at the very end of the bar and made their move.

They slipped through, claimed those seats, and began ordering Shirley Temples.

Meanwhile, the bartenders were trying to figure out whose children had just arrived so confidently at their bar. Three were on stools. The other three stood below, their little hands appearing over the edge beside their siblings.

They looked like tiny thirty-year-olds who had stopped in for their usual.

We were still making our way through the crowd, and they had already handled the drinks.

I think about that visit now and remember a house full of laughter, children in borrowed accessories, and a birthday table crowded with cowboy hats. Eva was one of the quieter people at that table, and I couldn’t have told you exactly what she would carry home from it.

I still can’t.

But years later, there she was, looking at a Facebook post and asking her mother where we were.

We couldn’t make the schedules work on this trip. We were in town so briefly and on such short notice, and Eva had her own commitments, including softball. Sadly, we didn’t get to see her.

The funny thing is that, by then, her question had already given me something.

We watch each other on social media. We like posts and occasionally leave comments. I see pieces of the life she’s growing into, and she sees pieces of ours. Then, one evening, a screenshot arrived while we were having supper, and I discovered that being nearby mattered to her.

As a guncle, I know how much I want to see the kids. I want to hear what they’re doing, feed them something, spend time with them, and get to know the people they’re becoming. That wanting is such a familiar part of loving them that I don’t spend much time thinking about it.

It caught me off guard to get a little glimpse of it coming back toward us.

We laughed and toasted at dinner, and I’m still smiling about it. I’m also a little damp-eyed.

We didn’t get to see Eva this time.

Just knowing she wanted to see us felt good.