I grab the bottle and slink away through the house, taking quiet steps through the hall. Declan calls it hypervigilance. Sean calls it “Dad mode.” Willow calls it “Pink Panther mode.” Ah, sure, they’ve all a name for it, haven’t they? And I hate them all, I do. But I’ve no alternatives.
She’s awake and calm when I lift her, dark eyes wide and unblinking. I change her wet diaper, then settle with her into the chair by the window. The city outside is wet and silver.
“Alright, wee one,” I whisper. “Let’s not wake your sisters, yeah? Just eat the bottle and go back to sleep, no screaming necessary at all, at all.” I talk to her like she’s got hostages. She does. Sheeats slowly, focused. I keep one finger tucked against her fist, anchoring her to something solid.
When she’s done, she burps like a prizefighter. “Fair play to you,” I mutter, half-proud and half-horrified, though I can’t help smiling. I could put her back into her crib, but it’s rare I get a moment with just one of the girls. I hold her against me and rub my hand in circles on her back, listening to the ticking of an old cuckoo clock Willow got from her grandparents, the humming of the air conditioner, and Sean’s guttural snoring in the other room.
I used to think I was good under pressure because I didn’t feel. Turns out I was just empty, so I was. Now I feel everything—terror, awe, the kind of love that makes your ribs ache, fierce and all.
From the doorway, Willow’s voice is a whisper. “It’s Declan’s night.”
I look up, startled but relieved to see her form. God, she moves quiet as rain. She walks over to the side of the rocking chair, gentle as anything, and pulls my head in against her stomach, her fingers intertwining in my hair. “I know,” I tell her. “I was already up.”
“You’ve been up for hours. You should sleep.” Her fingers on my scalp could put me to sleep if I weren’t resisting.
“In a minute,” I lie, still enjoying the warm weight of Aisling against me.
“You’ve been saying that since midnight.”
I nod against her stomach. “Aye,well, I’m a man of consistency.”
She sighs, but it isn’t angry, more content. We watch the little girl in my arms. Sure, look at her—fully awake, alert, content, just like me—proof of life, luck, and the unplanned lives being full.
“I keep thinking we’ll mess this up,” she says.
“We will, so we will,” I tell her. “But not tonight.”
She laughs into my hair a little and kisses the top of my head before leaving the room.
I find Declan’s feeding chart binder on top of the dresser and scribble in the margins, “Ongoing experiment of fatherhood going well so far in all fairness. Results TBD.”
I look at the last thing he wrote in it. “All three fed. All three fine.” Simple. No ounces tracked, just the facts. Enough for them, him, and me.
EPILOGUE
WILLOW
The house isquiet when I push open the door, heels in hand, the night air still clinging to my skin. It’s late but not as late as I meant it to be. Cheyenne and Dylan insisted on one more drink, one more story, one more round of laughter. Somewhere between my birthday cake and the drive home, I started missing this house—the boys and the girls, six people that I call mine. Eventually, I turned to Cheyenne with moony eyes and Dylan sighed. “I’ll take you home.”
Giggling, Cheyenne has an arm under mine, holding me in place while I wobble on the porch. Finally, I push the door open and brace for noise, a baby crying, a bottle clattering, Sean’s voice singing some mangled lullaby. But what greets me instead is candlelight.
Actual candles. Flickering on the coffee table, glowing against the window glass. The air smells faintly of lavender and lemon and something sweet but soapy.
“You’re home early, birthday girl,” Sean calls from the rug. He’s sprawled on his back, shirt half-unbuttoned, looking up at me with that grin that could talk its way out of a fire.
A wild laugh bubbles out of me when Cheyenne appears at my shoulder, her mouth wide open. “Good God,” is all she manages before stumbling backward. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
The door slams shut, and I move my hair in front of one shoulder, saying, “You’ve traumatized her. She’ll never get over this.”
Behind the couch, Rowan crosses his arms with soft eyes. “You were supposed to enjoy yourself,pet,so you were.”
Declan steps out from the hall with a tray in his hands. The tray has a mug, a small candle, and a rose in a glass. He leans over and pecks me, handing me the mug. “Looks like she did,” he tells Rowan, muttering to me, “Here, now. Hydrate, will ye?”
Rowan walks over to me from behind the couch with a box. I open it to find a plush robe. He says, “Go on, now, pet, change. Get comfortable.”
I blink at all three of them, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “What is this?”
“’Tis your birthday,” Rowan answers.
