The Woman with the Scar (Costa Family)

“Well, go wash those cuts and put some ice on that eye, okay?” Ezzy insisted since he seemed determined to get away from her poking and prodding.

“Will do,” he agreed, nodding.

“Hey, bud,” I called, waiting for him to lean his head back into the room.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Proud of you, kid,” I said, nodding.

It was right that moment, watching my kid smile at me, feeling my woman move in at my side, wrapping an arm around me, that I knew it.

I knew it down to my bones.

The cycle was broken.

“He’s a good egg,” Ezzy insisted, snuggling in when I curled her into my side.

“He is.”

“Those ones,” she grumbled as the girls started yet another heated argument above us, “those ones are…”

“Spirited,” I cut her off.

“Opinionated,” she countered.

“Confident.”

“Obstinate.”

“Strong,” I said, feeling her nod.

“Yes. They are that.”

“Like their Ma,” I said, giving her a squeeze as the front door opened.

And there was our youngest girl, looking like a mini version of her mom.

Carrying a rough-looking kitten with a ripped ear.

“And like their father.”