Chapter 7 Lights of Love

# Chapter 7: Lights of Love

The aftermath of Lily's kidnapping transformed our fragile new reality in ways I couldn't have anticipated. Margaret's arrest made headlines worldwide, with most stories focusing on the five-year-old genius who had outsmarted her kidnapper with homemade technology and legal knowledge. Overnight, my daughter became an internet sensation—something that terrified me as a mother but seemed to delight the triplets.

"Look, Mom! I'm a meme!" Lily announced one morning, showing me her tablet where someone had turned her courtroom security footage into an image captioned "LAWYER UP, KAREN."

"We're going to have a serious conversation about internet privacy," I muttered, making a mental note to increase our digital security protocols.

The week following the kidnapping had been a whirlwind. Margaret remained in custody, denied bail due to flight risk. Ted had moved temporarily into the guest house with us—sleeping on the sofa—insisting on being nearby for security reasons. The children were thrilled, treating the whole arrangement like an extended sleepover, while I navigated the complex emotions of having Ted integrated into our daily lives.

"We should celebrate," Ted announced over breakfast, exactly one week after Lily's safe return. "Something to mark a new beginning."

"Like a party?" Oliver perked up immediately.

"I was thinking more of a family night," Ted clarified. "Something special, just the five of us."

The casual use of "five of us" didn't escape my notice. Neither did the hopeful looks the triplets exchanged.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked cautiously.

Ted smiled. "It's a surprise. But I promise it's nothing extravagant or public."

Given that his last "gesture" had involved renaming a multi-billion dollar company, I was skeptical about his definition of "nothing extravagant." But the children's excitement was infectious, and I found myself agreeing.

That evening, after the triplets had spent the day speculating wildly about the surprise, Ted led us through the main house to a door I hadn't noticed before.

"Close your eyes," he instructed all of us.

The children complied eagerly. I hesitated, then closed mine as well, feeling Ted's gentle hand on my lower back guiding me forward. We walked for what felt like a minute, the floor changing texture beneath our feet.

"Okay," Ted's voice came softly. "Open them."

We were standing in what appeared to be an indoor garden—a massive glass-enclosed space filled with lush plants and trees. Thousands of tiny lights were strung among the foliage, creating a magical, starlit effect. In the center stood a picnic setup with cushions and blankets surrounding a low table laden with food.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, genuinely impressed.

"Dad's greenhouse!" Ethan exclaimed, already running to explore.

"I had it built after my mother died," Ted explained quietly, just to me. "She loved gardens. This was my way of keeping her with me."

The personal significance of him sharing this space touched me more deeply than any grand public gesture could have.

"The lights are programmable," Ted continued, producing a tablet. "Watch this."

He tapped the screen, and suddenly the lights rearranged themselves, flowing like liquid stars until they formed the words "FAMILY NIGHT" hovering above the picnic area.

"Cool!" Oliver shouted, jumping to see if he could touch the floating letters.

"Can we program them?" Lily asked immediately, eyeing the tablet.

Ted laughed. "After dinner. I promise."

The evening unfolded with a relaxed warmth I hadn't experienced in years. We ate picnic foods—gourmet versions of the children's favorites—played board games, and listened to Ted tell stories about his childhood adventures in the greenhouse. The triplets were captivated, especially when he described hiding from formal dinner parties among the ferns.

"Did you have siblings?" Lily asked, nibbling on a strawberry.

A shadow crossed Ted's face. "No. It was just me."

"That's sad," Oliver declared. "Everyone should have siblings."

"I agree," Ted smiled, ruffling Oliver's hair. "Which is why I'm so glad you three have each other."

As promised, after dinner Ted showed the children how to program the lights. They caught on with predictable speed, soon creating animated patterns that danced across the greenhouse ceiling.

"Mom, look! I made a spaceship!" Ethan called, pointing to his creation.

I watched from the comfort of the picnic blanket, a strange contentment settling over me. This was what I had always wanted for them—the freedom to explore their creativity, the security of family around them, the joy of simple moments.

"They're amazing," Ted said, sitting down beside me. "Every day they surprise me with something new."

"Try living with them for five years," I replied with a smile. "The surprises never stop. Like the time they reprogrammed the neighbor's sprinkler system to play the Star Wars theme."

Ted laughed. "I would have loved to see that."

The unspoken hung between us—all the moments he had missed, the milestones I had witnessed alone.

"I've been thinking," I said carefully, "maybe we could compile some videos and photos for you. From when they were babies until now. So you can see how they've grown."

His eyes widened, genuine emotion flickering across his face. "I'd like that very much."

Before he could say more, Lily called out excitedly. "Mom! Dad! Look what we did!"

We both turned to see that the children had programmed the lights to spell out "MOMMY MARRY HIM!" The message hovered, twinkling mockingly above us.

"Lily!" I gasped, mortification heating my cheeks.

Ted looked equally startled. "I swear I didn't put them up to this."

"We did it ourselves," Lily confirmed proudly. "All the houses in movies have moms AND dads living in them."

"And you already sleep in our house," Ethan added helpfully.

"On the sofa," I clarified quickly. "Temporarily."

"But you like Dad again," Oliver insisted. "We can tell."

I wanted the greenhouse floor to open up and swallow me whole. Ted, to his credit, seemed to sense my discomfort and intervened.

"Guys, relationships between grown-ups are complicated," he explained gently. "Your mom and I care about each other very much, and we both love you more than anything. But some things take time."

"How much time?" Lily demanded, hands on her hips in a posture that mirrored mine exactly.

"As much as your mom needs," Ted answered, giving me a look of such understanding that it made my throat tight.

The children seemed to accept this, moving on to create new light patterns while I sat in flustered silence.

"I'm sorry about that," Ted said quietly.

"It's not your fault," I sighed. "They've been dropping hints for days. Yesterday Lily asked if she could be the flower girl at our wedding."

Ted chuckled. "They're nothing if not determined."

"Wonder where they get that from," I muttered, but without heat.

We watched them play for a while longer, their laughter echoing in the glass-enclosed garden. Eventually, Ethan wandered back to us, looking suddenly serious.

"Dad, can I ask you something?" he said, sitting cross-legged in front of Ted.

"Anything," Ted replied, giving him his full attention.

"If Lily's eyes are like yours, does that mean she'll get sick like you did?"

The question blindsided me. I had never told the triplets about Ted's childhood illness—the rare complication related to his heterochromia that had required treatment when he was young.

Ted glanced at me in confusion. "How did you know I was sick?"

"We read your medical history," Ethan said matter-of-factly. "When we were researching Lily's eyes."

"You hacked my medical records?" Ted asked, sounding more impressed than upset.

"Just a little bit," Ethan admitted. "Because Lily was in the hospital when we were three, and the doctors said it might be genetic, and we didn't know who to ask because Mom always got sad when we asked about you."

My heart sank. I had tried so hard to shield them from worry, but of course, they had found their own ways to get information.

Ted's expression grew serious. "You're right, Ethan. The condition that affects Lily's eyes is genetic, and I did have problems when I was young. But medicine has improved a lot since then."

"Will she need surgery like you did?" Ethan pressed.

Ted looked to me for guidance, clearly uncertain how much I had shared with them.

"Lily has regular check-ups with specialists," I explained gently. "So far, her condition is stable. But yes, someday she might need treatment similar to what your dad had."

Ethan nodded, processing this. "That's why we wanted you to find us," he said to Ted. "Oliver figured out that we might need your medical history stuff. Lily doesn't know that part."

The revelation that my sons had orchestrated their father's return partly out of concern for their sister's health struck me deeply. While I had been focused on protecting them from the Preston world, they had been trying to access that world to protect Lily.

"You are an incredible brother," Ted told Ethan, his voice thick with emotion. "Looking out for your sister like that."

"That's what family does," Ethan replied simply, before wandering back to join his siblings.

Ted turned to me, his expression troubled. "How serious is her condition?"

I sighed, knowing I should have had this conversation with him sooner. "The heterochromia itself is harmless, but in Lily's case, it's associated with a rare variant that can affect the optic nerve. The doctors have been monitoring it since she was three, when she first showed symptoms."

"What kind of symptoms?" The concern in his voice was palpable.

"Headaches, sensitivity to light, some vision changes. She was hospitalized briefly when it flared up, but with medication, it stabilized." I paused, gathering myself. "The doctors mentioned that if it progresses, a bone marrow transplant might be the best treatment option."

Ted's face paled. "And you've been dealing with this alone all this time?"

"I had no choice," I reminded him gently.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognized from our past when he was deeply troubled. "I should have been there. For both of you."

"You're here now," I offered, surprising myself with the comfort I was extending.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, I allowed myself to remember what it had been like between us before everything fell apart—the understanding, the partnership, the way we'd faced challenges together.

The moment was broken by a collective gasp from the children. We looked up to see they had programmed the lights into a spectacular moving display—stars that swirled and danced across the greenhouse ceiling.

"It's like magic!" Oliver exclaimed.

Ted smiled, though I could see he was still processing the news about Lily. "It's better than magic—it's science."

"Science IS magic," Lily declared confidently, coming to sit on Ted's lap as if she'd been doing it all her life. "Dad, can we sleep out here tonight? Like camping?"

The ease with which she claimed him as her father, the natural way she curled against his chest—it created an ache in my heart that was both sweet and painful.

Ted looked to me for permission. "What do you think, Mom? Greenhouse campout?"

The hopeful faces of all four of them—Ted included—were impossible to resist. "I suppose we could bring some sleeping bags out here."

The children cheered, and Ted's grateful smile warmed something long cold inside me.

Later, after we had constructed a makeshift camp among the plants and the triplets had finally fallen asleep in a tangled pile of limbs and sleeping bags, Ted and I sat side by side, watching the gentle rise and fall of their chests.

"Thank you for tonight," I said softly. "This was exactly what they needed after everything that happened."

"What about you?" Ted asked. "What do you need, Wilona?"

The question caught me off guard. For five years, my needs had been secondary to the children's safety and well-being. I hardly knew how to articulate what I wanted for myself anymore.

"I need to know they're safe," I said finally. "That what happened with Margaret can never happen again."

"It won't," Ted promised. "She's facing serious charges, and I've made sure she has no access to Preston resources. The board has removed her completely."

I nodded, relieved but not entirely at ease. "And what happens when the next threat comes? Because there will always be something when you live in the public eye with billions of dollars attached to your name."

Ted considered this thoughtfully. "You're right. There will always be risks. But isolating ourselves—or worse, separating our family—creates its own kind of damage." He glanced at the sleeping children. "They deserve to grow up without fear, but also without hiding who they are."

"And who are they?" I asked softly. "Greenwoods? Prestons? Something in between?"

"They're ours," Ted said simply. "However they choose to define themselves. My hope is that they'll take the best of both of us—your resilience, my determination. Your intelligence, my resources. Together, we give them everything they need to face whatever comes."

His words painted a picture of partnership that was difficult to resist—a vision of us standing together for our children rather than me standing alone.

"I've missed so much," he continued, his voice tinged with regret. "First steps, first words, first day of school... I can never get those moments back. But I want to be there for everything else—science fairs, graduations, first heartbreaks, first successes. I want to be their father in every way that matters."

"You already are," I admitted. "They've accepted you completely."

"And you?" His question hung in the air between us, weighted with five years of separation and hurt, but also with the undeniable connection that had created three perfect children.

I looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since our reunion. The Ted before me was both familiar and new. The ambitious, brilliant man I had fallen in love with was still there, but tempered now by loss and perspective. His priorities had shifted, his edges softened.

"I'm... getting there," I answered honestly. "One day at a time."

He nodded, accepting this without pushing for more—another change from the Ted I had known before, who had always wanted immediate answers, immediate solutions.

"One day at a time," he agreed. "We have plenty of those ahead of us."

As if to punctuate his words, the greenhouse lights dimmed automatically, leaving us in the gentle glow of moonlight filtering through the glass. In the silvery light, with our children sleeping peacefully nearby, the possibility of a shared future seemed less frightening than it had before.

I didn't reach for his hand, and he didn't reach for mine. But the space between us felt less like a barrier and more like a bridge we were both cautiously willing to cross.