“Did dad ever kiss you like that?” Asks my oldest son. The one who cried when he watched our wedding video. I wept. He told me later. I take a minute to answer this question because Ben and I have shown our love for each other in front of the boys before—through hugs, holding hands and kisses. All 9 years of him are snuggled under my right arm—sometimes it feels more like a wing that they nest under.

They are all on top of me now, though we didn’t start our evening this way. The oldest was in the leather arm chair, the furthest from me. Making sure every now and then his protests over the movie were noted with phrases of “This is boring” and “I don’t like it.” I nod but say little, as I’ve learned by now that to engage is to lose the war. He will come around if given space.

The littler two—7 and 4—aren’t too cool…yet. I relish in their willingness to be excited at LIFE. These two still prefer to sleep in Mom and Dad’s shirts—little ankles and toes peeking from beneath cotton muumuus. Sometimes the youngest is tempted to trip at the fabric he risks drowning in each night as we tuck him in. They are already under each of my wings tonight, joining me in ignoring my eldest’s protests.

When he finds his way to the couch and nudges his way closest to my skin and looks up to ask me about my love life, I can see he has changed his mind about the movie. He is hooked. Taken on the journey and this is why I love story. Any story. All stories. Because it takes us inward and outward and leads us to care about everything.

“Yes” I say with a smile, knowing that Ben still kisses me like that.

“I mean before you were married.” I know he won’t believe me, because parents only exist for children’s needs. But I smile, wrap my wing tighter around him and nod my head. He doesn’t ask more because he is just discovering the possibility of love. And tonight, this is enough.