"Does Brennen know?" Sophie asks.
"He knows. Ryan knows. You two know. Julie found out yesterday. Maggie knows. That's it. The rest of the town still thinks she's dying."
Sophie laughs. "That explains Julie at Seaside Sweets this morning being so excited, like she had a secret to tell but it was killing her not to announce it."
"Emma steered her to the baby section at Target. Julie figured it out."
Ryan walks in, looking every inch the CEO in his tailored suit. "Are we talking about Emma's pregnancy?"
"Always," Brennen says. "Miles just told Sophie and Alex."
"About time. I was wondering when he'd officially let them in on the secret." Ryan pours himself wine. "She looked really happy at breakfast Saturday. Lighter. Like someone lifted a weight off her shoulders."
"Because she doesn’t have cancer," Brennen adds.
"Speak for yourself. I never thought it was cancer."
"You absolutely thought it was cancer. You texted me 'What if it's serious', three times."
"That's different from cancer."
Sophie interrupts. "Can we focus on the expansion? The distributor wants to know our production timeline."
We spend the next hour reviewing plans, discussing wine varieties, and mapping out the logistics. Brennen's energized in a way I haven't seen in months. Emma's vote gave him permission to chase his dream instead of taking the safe corporate money.
My wife made the right call. For her career, for her family, for herself.
She's building something sustainable. Finally.
When I finally head out, Sophie catches me at the door.
"Miles," she says quietly. "If you or Emma need anything, Alex and I are here for you both. Just call."
"Thanks."
"And for what it's worth? I think the work-life balance thing is good. She needed it."
I drive home thinking about Emma's decisions. The merger. The expansion vote. Telling her brothers about the pregnancy. She's been carrying so much alone for so long, and now she's finally letting people help.
It's about time.
At home, I settle into my office to finish wine reviews. Professional obligations don't stop just because you're about to be a father.
Father.
The word still feels surreal.
I pull up my review notes. The Pinot Noir I'm supposed to be analyzing isn't getting analyzed.
Instead, my mind keeps wandering to Emma at eight weeks pregnant, working at Preston, building a sustainable career that won't destroy her while she's growing a human.
I grab my phone.
One quick search. Just to understand the timeline.
"Eight weeks pregnant development"
The results are immediate. Tiny hands forming. Heart beating. About the size of a blueberry. Impossibly small.
