The Origin Story … in a nutshell
Spencer Hayes grew up in a family shaped by chaos, resilience, and a kind of love that had to be rebuilt more than once.
His father, Stryker Hayes, now sixty‑one, spent most of his youth and early adulthood fighting demons he never asked for — addiction, bad influences, and the emotional fallout of a mother who never quite forgave him for the life she lost by getting accidentally pregnant with him.
His music career flickered but never caught fire, and every time it seemed like he might rise, something inside him pulled him back under. Even now, with his wild hair gone grey and only traces of its old black‑brown remaining, with tattoos covering arms that aren’t as strong as they used to be, and bright blue eyes softened by everything he’s survived, he still carries the unmistakable aura of a rocker who lived too hard and loved even harder.
Spencer’s mother, Sophie (nee Cameron), now fifty‑six, was the opposite: quiet, steady, overlooked.
A wallflower who dreamed of a bustling kitchen, a full table, and a family of her own. She lived simply in her grandparents’ little Windenburg home, caring for her grandfather and cooking enough food to feed an army. With her light brown hair, warm brown eyes, freckles, and the soft, round features of someone who has spent her life feeding others before herself, she never saw herself as remarkable — but she was the axis around which everything eventually turned.
Their worlds collided the night Stryker crashed his motorcycle outside her house. Sophie hid him, fed him, and — for the first time in his life — Stryker felt cared for without conditions. What followed was messy, complicated, and far from a fairytale. Sophie became pregnant, Stryker panicked, and years of on‑again, off‑again turmoil followed before they finally tried to build a life together. They married. They had five children. And then everything fell apart again. Stryker relapsed, disappeared, and left Sophie to face public humiliation, financial ruin, and five kids depending on her. She clawed her way back by working in restaurant kitchens, while Stryker hit rock bottom so hard it nearly killed him.
But this time, he didn’t run. With Sophie’s reluctant help, he rebuilt himself — slowly, painfully — until he became the father and partner he should have been all along. A lottery inheritance from his late mother finally gave the family stability, Sophie opened her dream restaurant, and Stryker became the stay‑at‑home parent no one ever imagined he could be.
Spencer grew up in the middle of all of this — the oldest, the witness, the one who carried the heaviest memories. Now thirty‑five, tall and slender with his father’s blue eyes and coloring, he inherited his mother’s love of cooking, his father’s stubborn streak, and a determination forged in the cracks of a family that refused to break for good.
By the time Spencer reached adulthood, the Hayes family had stretched far beyond the walls of their Newcrest home. His siblings had scattered into lives as vivid and unpredictable as the household that raised them:
Keanu, thirty‑three, tan and warm‑eyed with chestnut hair and the easy charm of someone born for the ocean, settled in Sulani with his stunning wife Brielle — long blonde hair, green eyes, golden skin, worked as a model through college — raising their daughter Shea;
Phoenix, thirty‑two, fiery red hair and brown eyes, drifts across the world as a digital nomad, returning home only long enough to repack her bags;
Robin, thirty‑one, with long dark blonde hair and blue eyes, built a quiet life in Ravenwood with her husband Alder Davenport, dark‑haired and brown‑eyed, as they prepared to welcome their first child before too long, a son they will name Declan;
and
Indigo‑Blu — Indie — twenty‑eight, striking with her long black‑brown hair, big blue eyes, and alabaster skin, had rebuilt herself after a brutal chapter of her youth. As a teen she’d fallen deeply in love with a boy, a long‑distance teen romance that cracked under the pressure of finals and one terrible mistake: a one‑night stand that left her pregnant. The father turned out to have a fiancée — also expecting — and though he briefly moved in with Indie and newborn Christopher in a run‑down San Myshuno apartment, he abandoned them both soon after, never acknowledging paternity.
Indie tried to survive on her own, failing fast and quietly, until Christian — the boy she had loved and accidentally betrayed — found her by chance, helped mend the severed ties to her family, and brought her home. With her parents’ support, she rebuilt her life piece by piece. She had tried to mend things with Chris, but his hurt ran too deep for anything more than the quiet, steady friendship he was willing to offer. Heartbroken she accepted it, thinking he had been her one great love.
Years later, she met Viggo Lundgren, the tattoo artist who became the steady, gentle love she once thought she’d forfeited. He eventually adopted Christopher as his own — you’d never guess the boy wasn’t his by blood — and together they now raise Christopher, named subtly in honor of Christian, and their younger mutual son Sven in Nordhaven, in a home full of the safety and devotion Indie once believed she’d never deserve.
Lucky completes the family picture — the Hayes’ ancient, beloved mutt who truly lived up to his name. Sophie found him as a half‑starved puppy in a roadside ditch, crying so softly she almost didn’t hear him. She brought him home, fed him, and raised him into the boisterous, tail‑thumping menace he grew up to be.
Now seventeen years old — practically prehistoric for a big dog — Lucky is a walking miracle. He’s nearly toothless, his eyes are cloudy, and he hears only what he wants to, but he still insists on patrolling the yard, greeting visitors, and inserting himself into every family moment. He may wobble more than he runs these days, but he hasn’t surrendered an ounce of spirit.
Together, they formed the constellation Spencer came from — scattered across worlds, but always orbiting the same center: Sophie and Stryker, the unlikely gravity that held them all.
Current Day
Tomarang
Spencer was still searching for his own path. Failed relationships lay behind him, no clear “forever” ahead, so he traveled to Tomarang to train under renowned chefs and bring new flavors home to his mother’s restaurant.
Tomarang was beautiful, but the kitchen was brutal. Spencer was the outsider — the foreigner, the newbie, the one who had to prove he deserved to be there. The chef pushed him hard, the crew gave him grief, but Spencer had lived through worse. Compared to his childhood, a few sharp words and burned fingers were nothing.
One night, after a long shift, he took out the trash and caught a young woman digging through the restaurant’s dumpster. She was frightened, defensive, ready to bolt. He was supposed to stop her — it was against the rules — but something in her eyes reminded him of a story he had grown up hearing:
A hungry, exhausted stranger. A girl who offered food without hesitation. A moment that changed everything.
So Spencer did what Sophie once had done.
She looked thin, trembling, eyes wide like a cornered animal. He lifted both hands slowly, palms out, showing he meant no harm.
He tapped his chest. “Spencer, that’s me, my name is Spencer,” he said gently. Then, remembering how introductions usually went in Tomarang, he added, “Spencer Hayes.”
She blinked at him, wary but listening. After a moment, she touched her chest lightly. “Lamyai,” she whispered. Then she hesitated, searching for the words, and added, “Lamyai… Chansiri.” She tapped her chest again for the first name, then her shoulder for the last, hoping he understood the difference.
He did. He’d been in Tomarang long enough to know people introduced themselves with their given name first. “Lamyai Chansiri,” he repeated softly, careful with the sounds.
He pointed to the restaurant, then to her stomach, miming eating. “Hungry?”
She hesitated, then nodded once, tiny and ashamed. “Hun‑gee,” she echoed, her English broken but her need unmistakable.
He gestured for her to follow — slow, careful, giving her space to refuse. She followed anyway, wide‑eyed and wary, clutching her arms around herself.
Inside his small rental home, he paused, unsure how to bridge the gap between her fear and his instinct to help. He pointed toward the bathroom, then mimed washing his face and hair. “Shower,” he said gently. “You can… freshen up.”
She blinked at him, uncertain.
So he opened the bathroom door and showed her: the clean towels folded on a shelf, the bar of soap, the shampoo. He kept his movements slow, deliberate, making sure she understood she wasn’t being pushed — just offered comfort.
Her gaze flicked around the small room, taking in every detail. Then she pointed to the inside of the door, to the small metal lock above the handle. Her finger hovered there, questioning, almost apologetic.
Spencer nodded immediately. “Yes,” he said softly, tapping the lock. “Safe. You can lock.” He stepped back from the doorway to show he meant it. “I won’t come in.”
Something in her posture loosened — not much, but enough to breathe.
Then he handed her a brand‑new toothbrush still in its wrapper, and his bathrobe, soft and oversized. He tapped the robe, then pointed to her clothes, then back to the bathroom, hoping the meaning carried through.
Her eyes widened — not with fear this time, but with something like disbelief. She nodded once, tiny and grateful, and slipped inside, closing the door with a quiet click and turning the lock.
While the shower ran, he gathered her clothes — thin, dusty, worn from too many nights outside — and hesitated only a moment before loading them into the washing machine. He pointed to the machine when she emerged later, hair damp, wrapped in his robe, and said gently, “Wash. Clean. Dry soon.” He mimed the spinning motion, hoping she understood.
She stared at the machine, then at him, her expression softening into something he couldn’t quite name. Gratitude. Relief. Maybe even trust.
He cooked while her clothes washed — a quiet, gentle act that felt like a thread connecting him back to his parents’ beginning. She watched him the whole time, eyes darting between the food and his face, as if waiting for the moment he changed his mind.
When he handed her the bowl, she pressed her palms together in a wai, murmuring “khob‑khun… khob‑khun,” over and over.
They didn’t exchange anything else — not stories, not details, not reasons. Just names. Just enough to make them real to each other.
She told him, in fragments and gestures, that she had nowhere to go. He pointed to his bedroom, then to her, then to himself, then to the couch. She shook her head, he insisted, and eventually she accepted.
He showed her into the bedroom, pulling the door halfway closed so she could see the small key hanging from the inside lock.
“This one locks too,” he said gently. “You can… you know… lock. Click, click.” He pointed at himself. “Me — couch. I won’t come in. You lock.”
She glanced at the bed the way a starving dog might look at a steak — longing, disbelief, exhaustion all tangled together. Then she nodded, thanking him with a wai and a flurry of small, grateful bows.
By the time Spencer went to shower, she was already curled up on his bed like someone who hadn’t slept safely in months.
For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was doing something that mattered.
But in the morning, she was gone.
And so was his money. Luckily that was all she had taken; the rest of his wallet, his credit cards, his IDs were still there.
After she disappeared with his cash, he told himself it was a lesson learned — kindness didn’t always pay off, and he should’ve known better. Now he had paid the ‘idiot fee’ for being too trusting. But every night when he walked home from the restaurant, he still glanced down alleys, still listened for footsteps behind him, still wondered if she was safe.
Then one evening, after a brutal shift — burns on his forearm, the chef yelling in three languages, the dishwasher flooding again — he unlocked his rental door and froze.
The lights were on. Something smelled… good. Like lemongrass, garlic, and something sweet simmering low.
He stepped inside.
She was there.
For a moment he could only stare — at her, at the lit stove, at the neat little bowl of chopped herbs on the counter. His brain scrambled for the most basic question.
“How… how did you get in?”
She lifted one hand and pointed toward the back window — the one with the loose latch he kept meaning to fix. “Open,” she said softly. “I knock, you no home. I wait. Rain come. I go in. I cook. I say soh‑lee.”
Before he could process that, she was suddenly in front of him, stepping right into his path, head bowed low, both hands extended.
A thick wad of cash rested in her palms like an offering — far more than she had taken.
She bowed again, murmuring rapid Thai under her breath. “Kho‑thôt na kha… kho‑thôt… kho‑thôt mâak mâak…” *I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m very, very sorry
Then she lifted her face, eyes huge and terrified.
“Soh‑lee… soh‑lee, pleasss… forgib me.” Her accent was thick, vowels soft, consonants slipping. “I no bad girl. I jus’… hung‑lee. So hung‑lee.” She pointed to her tummy, eyes wide and earnest. “I make new monnee, buy food for you, an’ I make meal for you. Good meal. You hung‑lee?”
He stared at the cash. “Where did you get this?”
She hesitated — then mimed working at night: handing out flyers, scrubbing dishes, maybe dancing for tourists, maybe something else she didn’t want to name. Enough to hint at the truth without crossing the line he feared.
“I make monnee,” she said, tapping her chest. “Me. I make. I give back. All. All.” With that she stuffed the wad of cash in his jacket pocket.
He exhaled. “You didn’t have to—” he said, feeling guilty as she clearly needed it badly, but also relieved, truth was, so did he.
She cut him off, desperate. “I wan’ stay heah. I wok. You hire me?”
“Hire you? For what? I don’t have money to pay you. That money you took was all I had — it has to last me until I fly home.”
She tilted her head, thinking hard. Then, with absolute sincerity:
“You alone. No woman. I stay with you. I take care of you. Make you happy. I can make love good. Ev’ry night. Help you lehlax. Is good! We make love, and I stay. Ev’ry night. You like?”
Spencer nearly died on the spot. “NO! No, no, no — oh God, no! Absolutely not!”
She nodded sympathetically, as if she had cracked the code. “Ohhh. You like boy. I undahstan’. Men in love have photo of girl in wallet. You have no photo.”
“WHAT!? No! I don’t like boys! I like girls! Just not— not— that! How old are you? Are you even legal?!”
“I twen’y‑foh,” she said proudly, tapping her chest. Her brows lifted, eyes widening. “Oh… you no like me girl? You no wanna make love wit’ me? You no like Tomarang girls? I no pretty to you?”
That hit him like a punch to the chest.
“What? No! I mean— yes! I mean— not yes like— I mean you’re—” He flailed, hands going up, face going red. “You are absolutely gorgeous and of course I like you and would very much wanna make love with — what?! No, wait, I mean— I— um— theoretically, sure, I would, but— oh my God!”
He slapped a hand over his face, mortified, ears burning.
She stared at him for a beat.
Then she giggled — the first time he had ever heard her laugh.
“I good woman. You good man. You need woman.”
“Great, now you sound like my mother and all my siblings.”
She blinked. “You have… fam’lee?”
“Yeah. Big one. Five kids total. I’m the oldest. What about you? Do you have family?”
Her smile faded instantly.
She shook her head slowly. “Mama… Baba… die when I ten.” She tapped her chest, then the floor, then made a small gesture upward — gone. “I live wit’ sista. Sista husban’ say I too old, eigh‑teen, must find own husban’. He t’row me out. I have lived on street six year now. Try go back three time, but he say no.”
Spencer’s face softened. “That’s awful.”
She shrugged, small and resigned. “Is life.”
He sighed. “Yeah… well, my family is the opposite. We collect every stray.”
She blinked, confused. “Stray…?” She tilted her head, brows knitting, clearly not understanding.
“Oh—uh…” Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the simplest explanation. “Like… a dog. A puppy. You know? Woof‑woof.” He made a tiny pawing gesture, instantly regretting it. “Live on street, a dog with no home, hungry, cold, alone. Nobody wants them. They get left behind. A stray.”
Understanding dawned slowly across her face.
She pointed at herself. “Me… I stray!” Then, with absolute seriousness, she added, “You keep me? Woof‑woof.” And she barked — a tiny, ridiculous little sound that shouldn’t have been cute but somehow was.
Spencer burst out laughing, startled and charmed all at once.
They settled on something simple: She could stay. She could help around the house. He would give her food and a safe place to sleep. No lovemaking required.
No strings. No expectations.
And she watched him closely for days, waiting for the catch.
But there wasn’t one.
He really was just… kind.
One night, a few weeks into their arrangement, Spencer was walking home after a long shift at the restaurant when he passed a little night market and remembered the thin rubber strap of her flip‑flops had snapped and been tied back together with a piece of string. So he stopped at a street stall and bought a new pair — nothing fancy, just simple soft‑pink sandals that looked sturdy and comfortable.
As the vendor wrapped them, something else caught his eye: a row of soft cotton dresses swaying gently in the warm night breeze. Most were bright or patterned, but one stood out — a simple light‑blue dress, airy and cool, the kind of thing that would feel good against the skin in Tomarang’s heat. He thought of her shirt, thin as paper when he’d washed it, seams worn nearly through.
He hesitated only a moment before adding the dress to his purchase.
Beside the dresses, he spotted a carved wooden hair stick with a tiny inlaid flower. It was inexpensive, but delicate and beautiful. Like her.
When he handed them to her, he did it awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… saw your shoes were breaking. Thought you might like new ones. And the, uh… hair thing just looked nice. I figured you might like it. Bet it would look pretty in your hair. Oh— and this too.” He held out the small paper parcel with the light‑blue dress folded inside.
She stared at the gifts as if he had handed her something sacred, made of pure gold.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers hovered over the dress, almost afraid to touch it. Then she pressed everything to her chest — the sandals, the dress, the delicate wooden hair stick — eyes shining with a stunned, fragile joy.
“Khob‑khun… khob‑khun mak mak,” she whispered, voice trembling. “No man buy me shoe. No man buy me pretty thing.” She looked down at the dress, swallowing hard. “When I live wit’ sista… I wear old cloth only. Old, old. Never new. Never.”
She blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling. “I always wanted hair stick.”
Before he could respond, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him — a small, tight, trembling hug, over almost as soon as it began. She pulled back quickly, eyes down, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Spencer froze.
He’d been in Tomarang long enough to know hugs weren’t common here — not with strangers, not with men, not unless there was trust or emotion too big to hold in. Most people wai’d politely, kept distance, kept composure. A hug meant something. A hug was… intimate.
And she had given him one without thinking, like her heart had moved faster than her fear.
His own heart thudded hard in his chest. “It’s nothing, really,” he managed, voice rougher than he meant. “Glad you like it.”
But to her, it wasn’t “nothing.” To her it meant the world.
After that, she started doing small things: folding his shirts, leaving tea for him on the coffee table by the couch — always waiting there when he came out of the bathroom at night, after she’d already closed her bedroom door — humming while she cooked for him every evening. She cleaned the home, washed his laundry, including his underwear — even the threadbare, hopelessly overstretched pairs he should’ve thrown out years ago, and the mortifying white ones covered in faded red kiss‑mark prints. Those had been a Valentine’s Day joke from an ex — or maybe he’d bought them for her, he couldn’t even remember anymore — the same ex he’d once been serious enough about to move in with, right up until the day he walked in on her with another man. After that, he’d packed his things and moved back in with his parents. He really should have thrown those out six years ago. Instead, Lamyai now folded them neatly into a drawer as if they were perfectly respectable.
The thought of her having handled his unmentionables had his ears burning hot. More and more she doted on him.
Spencer tried not to notice how warm the rental house felt now, how much he looked forward to unlocking the door. Like a home away from home.
He tried not to fall for her. He failed. Gloriously so.
He caught himself staring at her far too often — not intentionally, not creepily, just… drawn. Drawn to the way she hummed when she cooked, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, when she wore it down, which she rarely did, as she was always wearing it up in new ways with the hair stick he’d bought her, the way she smiled at him like he was someone worth smiling at.
And then there was that night by the river.
It had been unbearably hot, the kind of sticky Tomarang heat that made sleep impossible. She had taken his hand without warning — small fingers curling around his — and tugged him down a narrow path he didn’t even know existed. The river appeared out of the darkness like a secret, moonlight shimmering on the surface.
Before he could ask what they were doing, she slipped off her sandals and waded in, laughing softly as the water splashed her knees. She wore what looked like her underwear — thin, pale fabric clinging to her in the moonlight — and Spencer’s brain short‑circuited.
His body reacted before his dignity could intervene.
He spun around so fast he nearly tripped over a rock, muttering something about “checking the… uh… shoreline,” while praying she hadn’t noticed the very obvious problem he was trying to hide with both hands and a strategically placed tree trunk.
She hadn’t teased him. She hadn’t even looked at him. She’d just splashed water at his back and told him to “come cool down, Spensah,” in that lilting voice that made cooling down impossible.
He’d barely survived the night.
And yet… he kept thinking about it. About her. About the way she trusted him, tugged him along, laughed with him, warmed the house just by being in it.
One night after dinner, she settled beside him on the couch. Close. Too close. Her knee brushed his, and she didn’t move away.
She looked up at him with soft, steady eyes and said quietly:
“Chan rak khun, Spensah.”
He blinked. “What? I’m sorry, I know I should know what that means — I’ve been here long enough — but all I can say at this point aside from the names of food, is hong‑nam yoo tee nai and rot‑mee bpai nai and mai ped, khráp, which I really hope mean ‘where’s the bathroom,’ ‘where’s this bus going,’ and ‘not spicy, please,’ and not something wildly insulting. I suck at languages — what does that mean?”
She smiled shyly, cheeks warm. “It mean… I love you, Spensah.”
His heart stopped. His brain blue‑screened. He was pretty sure he forgot how to breathe.
“I— you— what—” he stammered, sounding like a man trying to reboot without an operating system. “You… love… me?”
Before he could gather a single coherent thought, she gasped softly — startled for only a heartbeat — then tightened her fingers around his hand and rose, tugging him gently toward the bedroom.
Spencer followed a few steps before panic and sincerity collided in his chest. He stopped in the doorway, breath unsteady.
“Wait… hey. I—” He tried to repeat what she had said earlier, but the words tangled hopelessly on his tongue. “Chan racoon you too.”
She froze.
Then her eyes widened.
Then she snorted — an actual, tiny, musical snort — before dissolving into giggles. She covered her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking so hard she had to turn away for a second.
Spencer groaned. “Oh God. What did I say? Did I just insult your ancestors? Did I confess my love to a bowl of noodles? I told you I suck at languages. I have no ear for them. At all.”
Still laughing, she shook her head and stepped closer. “No, no. Not racoon,” she said, wiggling her fingers like tiny paws. “Racoon is animal. Very cute animal. But not love.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “Fantastic. Great. Amazing. I’m a linguistic disaster and I think I just told you I’m in love with a woodland creature. Okay, let’s try this again. Chan… chan… what was it again? Just so I don’t call you a raccoon again.”
“No, no, no,” she said, tapping her own chest. “You no say chan. Chan is for girl. You man. You say… phom rak khun.”
“What?” He blinked. “That sounds like I’m saying… Prom. That’s a dance where I come from. Teenagers. Bad decisions. Boys go broke. Girls lose their minds before and after. Traumatic. The whole thing.”
She burst into fresh giggles, nearly doubling over. “No, no! No Prom. Phom. Soft. Like… foam.” She shaped the word with her lips, slow and careful. “Phom rak khun.”
He tried it. “Ah. Phom. Like pho, the food! Now we’re talking. Food is a language I do understand. Phom … rock… coon. Dammit, that sounded NOTHING like what you said! Sounds like a damn love hymn to a damn racoon again!”
That absolutely destroyed her. She wheezed, grabbed his arm for balance, and had to take a breath before she could speak.
He sighed, frustrated. “Just great. I think I just told you I love… foam, rocks, and raccoons. Which I do not. I am hopeless.”
She giggled again — that soft, bright Thai‑girl giggle that bubbled up like she couldn’t hold it in. “Is cute,” she said, poking his arm. “You try. You try for me.”
Her laughter softened. Her eyes lifted to his — warm, bright, and suddenly very, very close.
She reached up, hooked two fingers into his collar, and tugged him down with surprising confidence.
The kiss she gave him wasn’t gentle. It was sure, breath‑stealing, the kind that made his knees forget their job. He leaned into it instinctively, hands finding her waist, kissing her back with the same stunned, hungry relief.
When she finally pulled away, her lips brushed his cheek as she leaned to his ear.
“Phom rak khun,” she whispered, slow and warm.
He swallowed, heart thudding. “Phom rak khun,” he repeated — this time smooth, steady, and unmistakably correct, his Western accent wrapping around the words just right.
Her smile told him he’d finally said it properly.
And in that moment — the corrected grammar, the giggles, the warmth between them — the world outside the little cabin felt very far away. It was just them, in this very moment.
Newcrest
Back in Newcrest, several months later, Sophie was in full mother‑hen meltdown mode. Balloons and party decorations were up everywhere, across from the front door on the wall a banner reading “Welcome Home Spencer!”
Sophie had cooked and baked Spencer’s and everyone’s favorites like she was feeding an army — which, to be fair, she was. All five kids were home, plus spouses, plus grandkids, plus Connor and Keira Cameron, plus whoever else had wandered in behind them. The house was chaos: toys everywhere, someone crying upstairs, someone laughing downstairs, someone yelling about a missing shoe.
Sophie fluttered between stove and counter, hair frizzing from steam and stress. “There’s not enough whipped cream! I should’ve made more—”
Robin — heavily pregnant, blue‑eyed, long dark blonde hair pulled into a messy bun — wrapped her arms around her mother from behind. “Mom, we could feed the entire neighborhood twice over. Please stop before you collapse.” She planted a kiss on her mom’s cheek.
Alder Davenport, Robin’s dark‑haired husband, bounced their toddler niece Shea on his hip while Brielle — Keanu’s golden‑skinned, green‑eyed wife — tried to keep her husband from stealing cookies off the counter.
“Quit this! You act like you don’t eat back home!”
“Not like this, babe. I love you, and your cooking’s good, but nobody cooks and bakes like Mom.”
Brielle froze mid‑swat, then slowly turned her head toward him. “Oh. Okay. Cool. Fine.” She slapped his hand away again. “Go ahead then — eat till you puke and get all flabby. Good luck trying to surf with a big ol’ dad‑belly dragging in the water.”
Keanu blinked. “Wow. That was uncalled for.”
She raised a brow. “So was ‘Mom cooks better.’ Try me again.”
Alder nearly dropped their daughter Shea laughing. Robin covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. Shea clapped like she understood the drama.
Brielle spun on her heel, ready to storm off in righteous wife fury — but Keanu caught her wrist, tugged her back, and pulled her straight into his chest.
“Hey—hey, babe, no, come here,” he said, already leaning down. “I’m sorry. I’m stupid. I love your cooking. I love you. I love everything you make, even the stuff you burn.”
“Keanu!” she protested, but he kissed her anyway — quick, warm, and completely disarming.
She melted for half a second before shoving his shoulder. “You so dumb,” she muttered, cheeks pink.
He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your dumb. And you are too, ’cause you married me.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. You’re lucky I love you.”
Indigo‑Blu stood nearby with her alabaster skin and big blue eyes, Sven on her hip and Christopher glued to her leg, wailing as Viggo Lundgren — tall, tattooed, and trying his absolute best — attempted to pry the toddler off her without causing a full‑scale meltdown.
Free‑spirited Phoenix, fiery red hair tied back, lounged on the arm of the couch, home for once between adventures, filming the chaos on her phone like it was premium entertainment.
Stryker, older and softer now, sat at the table peeling fruit with the focus of a man who knew better than to get in his wife’s way, preparing pieces for his granddaughter Shea — who was already reaching for them from Alder’s lap beside him. Connor Cameron — tall, calm, long‑haired, blonde and blue‑eyed, the doctor who had saved Stryker’s life more than once — sat on his other side, chatting quietly while Keira, radiant as always, helped set out plates.
Then Keanu called from the window, voice booming through the house: “Taxi’s here! The lost brother has returned home! Everyone in position!”
The entire house erupted.
Everyone rushed to the door, lining up like a chaotic welcome committee. Confetti poppers ready. Party horns in mouths. Phoenix filming on her phone.
The door unlocked.
“SURPRISE!”
Confetti exploded. Horns blared. Kids screamed.
And Spencer stepped inside — suitcase in one hand, the other arm wrapped protectively around a small, beautiful, terrified young woman.
She clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the room.
The entire family froze.
Sophie’s smile faltered. Stryker stopped breathing. Connor’s eyebrows lifted. Keira’s eyes widened. The kids stared like they’d just seen Santa walk in naked.
Spencer cleared his throat. “Hi everyone. Mom, Dad… this is Lamyai.”
A beat.
He swallowed hard. “Umm… my… ah… my wife.”
The room detonated.
Sophie’s jaw dropped. Stryker dropped the fruit. Keanu choked on his own spit. Indigo gasped. Robin squeaked. Phoenix whispered, “Oh my god, what the actual ….”
Spencer winced. “And… she’s pregnant.”
Sophie fainted.
Not a graceful swoon — a full, dramatic collapse.
Spencer’s brother Keanu lunged. Their brother-in-law Viggo lunged. Between the two of them, they caught her before she hit the floor.
“CONNOR!” Keanu shouted.
But Connor was already moving — kneeling beside Sophie, checking her pulse, calm as ever. “She’s fine,” he said, voice steady. “Just overwhelmed. Someone get her water.”
He picked her up and carried her to the couch like she weighed nothing, despite Sophie’s lifelong battle with her generous curves — a battle she usually lost to her own cooking.
Keanu hovered anxiously. Stryker had tried to stand when she fell, but his body betrayed him — stiff, slow, trembling — and Keira gently steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.
Connor settled Sophie onto the couch, lifting her legs and checking her breathing with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. “She’s okay,” he reassured them. “Just give her a minute. Well, welcome home kiddo. You sure know how to make an entrance.”
Lamyai, shaking, pressed her palms together in a wai, whispering apologies in Thai, eyes wide with fear.
Spencer tightened his arm around her, protective and terrified. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “They’re just… dramatic.”
“Right. Um. Welcome to our home. I am Stryker, Spencer’s dad and I guess your … umm … father-in-law.”
“Yeah, congrats on the wedding, big bro. And thanks for the heads up,” Phoenix said, with the other siblings and spouses chiming in congratulating him and Lamyai in the most odd and almost awkward way.
Sophie groaned softly as her eyes fluttered open, blinking up at the ceiling like she wasn’t entirely sure what universe she’d landed in. Connor kept two fingers on her wrist, counting her pulse, while Keanu hovered so close he was practically breathing her air.
“Mom? Mom, you okay?” Keanu asked, voice cracking.
Sophie blinked again, then focused on Connor. “Did… did I faint? Since when do I do that?!”
“Welcome back, sweetheart. Yeah, you sure did,” Connor said gently, patting her hand. “But you’re alright. Just a bit much for you today with the power cooking, the aggressive decorating-mania and now the news.”
She sat up too fast, wobbling, and Keanu steadied her shoulders. “Oh my goodness,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “I thought I imagined it. Spencer… Spencer said… he said…”
Her eyes darted across the room until they landed on Spencer — and on Lamyai, still half‑hidden behind him, trembling like a leaf.
Sophie’s breath hitched. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered — and no one could tell which one she meant.
She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring Connor’s warning, and shuffled toward them with the determination of a mother who had raised five children – plus a husband who had been more like another child than a help for most of their marriage – and survived all of them.
Spencer braced himself.
But Sophie didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. She didn’t demand answers.
She cupped his face in both hands, tears spilling over. “My baby boy,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You got married. My sweet baby who once made me a mother is a married man now – and about to be a daddy too.”
Spencer swallowed hard. “Yeah, Mom. I… I did. Sorry I didn’t tell you, kinda hard to explain all of this on the phone and the wedding was a bit of a rush decision, just at the courthouse in Tomarang. I had to leave, my visa was up and I just couldn’t leave her there. Lamyai had it very rough for a long time and she deserves better. Figured as my wife immigration would be easier. And I was never going to leave my child behind.”
“My baby Spence-y is going to be a daddy,” Sophie added, as if reminding herself the world was still real.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, you will be such a good dad. A great daddy. You practically helped raise all your siblings. I have no doubt.”
Sophie turned to Lamyai.
The poor girl froze, eyes wide, palms pressed together in a trembling wai.
Sophie’s face crumpled.
“Oh honey,” she breathed, and pulled Lamyai into a hug so sudden and so fierce that Spencer actually flinched. “Aren’t you just precious! Such a pretty thing and so delicate, like a tiny porcelain doll. Welcome home, my sweet new daughter!”
Lamyai stiffened — then melted, just a little, into the warmth.
Behind them, the siblings erupted.
Robin squealed and clapped, nearly dropping her phone. Indigo‑Blu burst into tears. Viggo lifted Sven higher on his hip so the infant could see. Brielle hugged Keanu, who was still pale from the fainting scare. Alder fist‑bumped Phoenix, who was filming everything like a documentary crew.
Even Stryker, trembling but upright now, wiped at his eyes. “Well,” he said hoarsely, “guess I’m gonna be a grandpa again. Starting to lose count here …”
Connor stood, brushing off his knees. “And I guess I’m on standby for the next fainting spell. Can nobody we know do normal — like… EVER? We show up expecting a sappy welcome‑home thing with too much food, and instead it’s a full‑blown soap opera with a plot twist big enough to need its own theme music.”
Keira elbowed him. “You love it.”
He didn’t deny it.
Sophie finally released Lamyai, holding her by the shoulders, studying her face with a mother’s intensity. “Welcome, sweet girl. I can see you make my sweet boy very happy, which makes me happy. You’re family now.”
Lamyai nodded, tears gathering, whispering, “Khob‑khun… khob‑khun…”
Then — because the universe had a sense of humor — Lucky, the Hayes’ elderly, half‑blind, almost‑deaf mutt, shuffled out from under the dining table with a party horn clenched between the few teeth he still had.
He gave it an experimental chew.
MWOP‑MWOOOOOOP—
The tragic, dying‑goose kind that unrolled all the way out… and then sloooowly curled back in on itself.
Everyone froze.
And that was it. That was the moment the tension shattered — the entire Hayes family burst into laughter.
Even Lamyai.
Even Spencer.
Even Sophie, who immediately started crying again.
Lucky blinked at the room — or at least in the room’s general direction — tail wagging twice before he wandered off again, party horn still dangling from his mouth.
That was it. The tension shattered.
Sophie let out a strangled sound — half laugh, half sob. She wrapped one arm around Spencer’s neck, pulling him in with the force of a mother who had waited months for this moment. The other arm swept around Lamyai, tugging her into the embrace like she’d been part of the family for years.
“Oh my goodness,” Sophie cried, laughing and sobbing all at once. “I tried to plan this day so well, but look at this beautiful, crazy mess. My baby boy is home, and he brought home a wife and a grandbaby baking, and I fainted, and Lucky is chewing on party decorations, and—” She giggled. “I’m so happy I could die.”
She turned to Connor and winked. “I said could, not would, so relax, doc.”
Connor smirked and snapped her a mock‑military salute.
Lamyai stiffened at first, startled by the sudden affection, but Spencer’s hand found the small of her back, grounding her. Slowly, she relaxed into Sophie’s warmth, her eyes shining.
Sophie pulled back just enough to look at them both — really look — her face blotchy, her mascara smudged, her heart wide open.
Then she turned to Lamyai, her expression softening into something almost reverent.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from Lamyai’s cheek, then pointed at her stomach. “May I?”
Lamyai blinked, confused, then nodded shyly.
Sophie placed a gentle hand on Lamyai’s still‑flat belly, her touch feather‑light, her voice trembling with joy.
“Hello, little one,” she whispered. “I’m grandma.”
The room went silent again — but this time it was warm, full, overflowing.
Lamyai covered Sophie’s hand with her own, tears slipping down her cheeks. Her lips trembled, her voice barely a breath.
“Khob‑khun… mâe.”
A ripple of confusion passed through the room — the siblings glancing at each other, Stryker frowning softly, Keanu mouthing what did she say? at Spencer, Phoenix raising an eyebrow behind her phone.
They didn’t know the word.
But Spencer did.
His breath caught, eyes stinging, he couldn’t speak, because mâe meant mother. Lamyai called Sophie ‘mom’.
Sophie didn’t understand the word either, not literally, but she understood the emotion behind it. Her face crumpled — laugh, sob, joy, shock, all tangled together — and she pulled both Spencer and Lamyai into her arms again, clutching them like she could hold the whole world together by sheer force of love.
“Oh honey,” she cried, voice shaking. “Oh sweetheart… oh my goodness…”
She kissed Spencer’s cheek, then turned and pressed a trembling, motherly kiss to Lamyai’s temple — soft, instinctive, protective. Lamyai froze for half a second, startled by the unfamiliar affection… then leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh my goodness,” Sophie cried, laughing and sobbing all at once. “I tried to plan this day so well, but look at this beautiful, crazy mess. My baby boy is home, and he brought home a wife and a grandbaby baking, and I fainted, and Lucky is chewing on party decorations, and—” She giggled. “I’m so happy I could die.”
She turned to Connor and winked. “I said could, not would, so relax, doc.”
Connor smirked and snapped her a mock‑military salute.
She kissed Spencer’s cheek, then turned and pressed a trembling, motherly kiss to Lamyai’s temple — soft, instinctive, protective. Lamyai froze for half a second, startled by the unfamiliar affection… then leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.
“You two must be famished from that long trip,” Sophie declared, wiping her tears with the heel of her palm. “Oh my goodness, what am I doing letting you stand here like this? Come on, come on — sit, sit, sit — I’ll get you something to eat.”
She herded them toward the dining room table with the unstoppable force of a woman who had raised five children and refused to let anyone go hungry in her house.
Keanu stepped aside, wide‑eyed. Phoenix whispered, “Here she goes… she has been cooking and baking all day.” Robin mouthed, brace yourself.
Sophie was already bustling toward the kitchen, still crying, still laughing, still wiping her face.
“I made all this party food, but that’s not what you need now. You need something healthy, with substance, nourishing — not cakes, cookies, and finger food or potato salad! I’ve got leftovers, and fruit salad, and I can make something quick — oh sweetheart, you’re pregnant, you need to eat for two now — Spencer, why didn’t you tell me sooner, I would’ve made a roast—”
Lamyai looked up at Spencer, overwhelmed but glowing, her voice barely a whisper.
“She… she kiss me.”
Spencer smiled, soft and aching. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Mom does that. You may not have had parents since you were ten, but you do now. Whether you like it or not, you’ve just been adopted into the Hayes family.”
He pointed gently toward Sophie. “Mâe. Her name is Sophie.” Then toward Stryker. “Phôh. His name is Stryker.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and gestured around them. “Hope you’re good with names, because you’ve got a lot of new siblings now.”
He pointed at his three sisters in turn. “Phîi‑sǎao — that’s Robin… phîi‑sǎao Phoenix… phîi‑sǎao Indigo‑Blu.” Then at Keanu. “And phîi‑chai — that bigmouth is Keanu.”
He took a breath, steadying himself. “Hey, guys… this is Lamyai. She’s twenty‑four. She doesn’t have family left except a sister, and her sister’s husband kicked her out the day she turned eighteen. She’s been on her own ever since.” His voice softened. “How we met is a long story — and I’ll tell you all of it, I promise — but what matters right now is that this is real. I love her. She loves me.”
He squeezed Lamyai’s hand. “Yes, I married her so she could come home with me and stay. But I would’ve married her anyway — we just sped things up. And yeah, the pregnancy wasn’t planned, but it’s not unwelcome. I’m old enough to be a husband and a dad, and I’m ready for it.”
For a heartbeat, the room went soft and quiet.
Sophie pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh sweetheart… you should’ve told us. We could’ve—” Her voice cracked. “We should have given you a real wedding. A proper celebration. Not just a courthouse and paperwork without any of us there! I want to see every one of my babies get married.”
Robin nodded fiercely. “We can still do it. Lots of people do the courthouse first while saving up for the big one. Indie and Viggo did that! She already had baby Sven loading when they finally threw the big bash!”
Phoenix lifted her phone. “Yes, absolutely — I vote real wedding. I’ll be the videographer!”
Indigo‑Blu smiled gently at Lamyai. “You would be such a beautiful bride. Spence, seriously, we have to see you two do it.”
Keanu opened his mouth— Stryker shot him a warning look. He shut it again.
Instead, Stryker cleared his throat. “I rarely pull the Dad‑card, but I’m doing it now. We’re having a wedding.” He held up a hand before Spencer could protest. “You two get to choose how and where, but we still have money saved from the inheritance for exactly this kind of thing. And for the nursery, obviously.”
He hesitated, then added, “And… we want to meet her sister. I promise I’ll try not to have words with that husband of hers for throwing a young woman out on the streets. Tssk!” His jaw tightened, but he pushed on. “That sister should know all of us too. Maybe we’ve got enough left in savings for a family trip to Tomarang — have a small wedding celebration there, where it all started, sister can be there without some logistical nightmare, let everyone meet properly. And you two could have a week to just breathe. No kitchens. Just… relax. Honeymoon. Sightsee. Be newlyweds.”
He glanced at Sophie — and the way her face lit up told him he’d hit the jackpot. She needed this. She needed to see Spencer and Lamyai say their vows in style.
Then Spencer straightened, slipping back into big‑brother mode. “Okay, that actually does sound great, I have seen weddings there and think that would be nicer than a western style one. Okay fine, we’ll do a real wedding, honestly, it did bother me what we had to do without one, so I am all game and I don’t have to ask, I know Lamyai would love it. But, and this goes to all my siblings, plus spouses: Lamyai is learning English while I am learning Tomarani, so I know it is hard, and being laughed at doesn’t help. So, you all be nice to my wife, or you’ll answer to me. I’m the oldest and can still take you. And I know all your dirty secrets.”
And that was when Keanu — who had been vibrating with barely contained energy — threw his hands up and announced to the room:
“Yeah, cool story, bruh. All I gotta say is: this tracks. Spencer’s memory has always been garbage. We tell him to find a woman and he deflects, whining about past history. We all had to kiss some frogs before finding the one. So, we send him to Tomarang to learn their cuisine for our restaurant, and his memory is so shitty he forgets what he was there for and brings home a wife instead! That wasn’t the assignment, big bro. You really need to start writing shit down, man.”
The room exploded.
Phoenix doubled over, nearly dropping her phone. Robin wheezed. Indigo‑Blu slapped Viggo’s arm, gasping for air in between laughing fits. Stryker let out a bark of laughter that startled even him. Connor pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying not to laugh but absolutely failing, especially since Keira was snorting for laughter next to him.
Even Sophie, halfway to the kitchen, spun around and pointed a wooden spoon at Keanu.
“Keanu Hayes! That is not—”
She broke into laughter mid‑scold, wiping tears from her cheeks.
“Oh, my goodness, that actually is funny! And not all wrong. You did need a nice woman and you also always had the memory retention of a broken strainer, Spence‑y.”
Spencer groaned. “Thanks, Mom…”
Lamyai blinked, confused, then looked at Spencer for translation.
He sighed, resigned. “My brother said… umm … my memory is so bad … for a long time they all tried to have me meet a girl, I always said no. Then they send me to Tomarang to learn cooking, and I come home with a girl. Like forgot why I went there.” He gestured, underlining his words.
Lamyai gasped — then giggled, covering her mouth with both hands.
Spencer groaned. “Don’t encourage him or Keanu will turn into a one‑man stand‑up comedy act which will have all of us asleep before dessert.”
Lamyai laughed, her fear and nervousness melting away in the welcoming warmth of this loud family.
And Lucky, wandering through the chaos, bumped into Keanu’s leg and gave a single, elderly hoarse wrooff, as if agreeing.
*
“I didn’t marry you to save you.
I married you because we saved each other.”Click on any image for a larger view.
EchoesOfLegacy 