Mrs. Derinor looks amazing despite all the children she’s borne. Her hair is mostly gray, her eyes are crinkled at the sides, and a few lines stand out on her forehead, but she’s a remarkably lean and strong woman. Still, she looks exhausted with five little ones hanging off her. She has a child on each hip, one little boy wrapped around one of her legs, another one tapping her tummy to try to get her attention, and a young girl nearby is stirring a pot on the stove.

“Ma,” Kellyn says, stepping forward. He wraps her in a hug, careful of the two little ones she’s holding. Then he takes one baby and thrusts it at Petrik and keeps the other one for himself. While holding the little one, he somehow manages to dislodge the boy from around his mother’s leg.

“Kellyn, you’re home! We didn’t know to expect you,” Mrs. Derinor says. With her arms free, she steps forward to wrap him in a proper hug.

“Surprise,” he says.

“And you brought guests!” the woman says, sounding thoroughly delighted. I don’t understand how she could possibly feel that way with her house already overrun with children.

Kellyn makes the introductions, and the woman greets each of us in turn with a big hug. For once, I don’t mind embracing a stranger.

“We’re so sorry to impose, Mrs. Derinor,” Temra begins.

“Nonsense, we’re happy to have you! And please, call me Kahlia.”

Petrik is holding the baby Kellyn thrust upon him as though he doesn’t know what to do with it. The little one starts fussing, and Petrik looks around desperately for help.

“Turn her the other way,” Kellyn says, “so she can see the room.”

“I don’t want to drop her.”

Temra shakes her head before stepping forward to help him turn the child in his arms.

“Tias, Rallon, Wardra, go wash up and then set the table for dinner. We’ll need four extra plates for our guests.”

“Yes, Ma,” they say, and tread back outside.

Kahlia helps the little girl at the stove now that her hands are free and finally listens to whatever the little boy who had been tapping on her wants to say.

I lean toward Kellyn. “How many of these children are you related to?”

“All of them.”

My eyes widen.

“I have eleven siblings,” he says without missing a beat.

“You never said anything about them,” I accuse.

He shrugs before stepping forward to chat with his mother, Petrik wanders the house with the baby, and Temra and I help the children set the table. It’s a crude piece, with hastily-nailed-together slabs at either end to accommodate all the children. The top has been sanded down and is stained with years of use, but it’s even and manages to just barely fit in the kitchen.

We’re so busy performing our tasks that we don’t notice at first when Kellyn’s father enters the house.

But when I see him, there’s no mistaking his relation to Kellyn. He’s even taller than his son, closer to seven feet than six. His hair is more red than Kellyn’s, but their facial features are so similar. He’s also a bit broader than Kellyn, with a little more at the waist. I can imagine Kellyn looking like this in thirty more years.