“I’m sorry to tell you this,” started a voice behind me. It belonged to a forgettable man in a checkered blue button down carrying a whimpering toddler in his arms. “We’re probably about to ruin your peaceful Saturday.”
The door to the garden creaked open again and a second man, also on the younger side of middle-age, with black hair and sporting a grey crew neck, held it open with his left shoulder as two more toddlers scurried past him and skipped down the three iron stairs. On his right shoulder a distressed infant on the verge of screams was being rocked into hypnosis. The concerned expression painted on his face faded only when both feet touched grass.
He handed the baby to the first man and all five of them settled down at the picnic table behind me. My assumptions confirmed, I smiled. There aren’t molds for families. Families are just families.
One of the little girls suddenly escaped her seat and beelined for the ancient, rotting wooden bench in the corner.
“Sit back down, Delphia,” the second man called to her. “Mommy and Mrs. Duval are bringing out the desserts.”
She looked at him distrustingly for a moment then back at the bench, carefully weighing her options.
Just then the door at the top of the stairs swung open for the last time and two chattering women, absorbed in a conversation begun at the counter inside, each effortlessly balancing several plates stacked high with chocolate éclairs and cream puffs, stepped down with total disregard for concentration and joined the rest of the group at the table.