I was no longer Coco Bissett, and I’d never be her again so long as I lived.
There was a certain elegance in simplicity. There was luxury in peace and quiet. There was grace and refinement in the still, quiet moments. And it took me thirty-one years to realize that I’d been looking for all the right things in all the wrong places.
Happiness was watching my husband stand outside, wheeling and dealing over Tennessee Walking horses with his hands resting in the belt loops of his tight jeans.
Happiness was feeling my baby rumble and roll inside my belly, knowing that he was all ours and I wouldn’t have to place him into someone else’s arms for the rest of his life.
Happiness was knowing that sweet Mabry was just a car ride away, and that we could still watch her grow up and be there for her every step of the way when she needed us.
Happiness was knowing I could forgive someone for hurting me in the worst way imaginable and end up loving them even more anyway.
I wiped my hands on a dishrag and set the casserole dish to dry before heading outside. The horse guy pulled away in his red truck, giving Beau a wave out the window.
“We all good?” I asked, slipping my arm behind his lower back.
“We are,” he said. “Three mares and a champion stallion.”
“Let the fun begin.” I patted his back and turned to head back into the house, stopping when his hand gently gripped my arm, pulling me back into him.
“Where do you think you’re going, Mrs. Mason?” Beau cupped my face and leaned down, crushing my lips with his. Bare grass beneath my feet tickled as I dug my toes into the earth. I loved when he kissed me so hard it made my toes curl.
That was happiness.
Winter Renshaw recently celebrated her third 29th birthday. By day, she wrangles kids and dogs, and by night, she wrangles words. She loves photography and peonies and lipstick and isn’t a huge fan of rude people. Chips and salsa are her jam, and so is cruising down the highway with the windows down and the air blasting while 80s rock blares from the speakers of her Mom-UV.