"Baby A was doing flips during the scan."
"That's your son. Already showing off."
"And Baby B was completely still. Your daughter. Already judging everyone."
Emma grins. "She gets that from me."
The pizza arrives. We eat directly from the box like civilized adults who definitely have their lives together. Emma's on her third slice when she stops mid-bite.
"Miles."
"Yeah?"
"Ryan's dinner tomorrow. We're telling everyone about the twins."
Right. Friday dinner. The family already knows about the pregnancy—that disaster of a breakfast where they all thought Emma had cancer. But they don't know it's twins.
"Brennen's going to hyperventilate," I say.
"Ryan's going to start calculating dual trust funds before dessert."
"Sophie and Julie will combust with baby shower excitement."
"Two showers. They'll insist on two."
"That's excessive."
"That's absolutely what's going to happen."
The pizza disappears. Emma demands ice cream—rocky road, specifically, which we don't have, so I make a late-night grocery run while she continues her ultrasound photo investigation.
The store is nearly empty at nine PM. I grab rocky road, then find myself in the baby aisle staring at tiny clothes. Everything comes in pairs now. Two onesies. Two sleepers. Two of those little hats that make babies look like garden gnomes.
I grab several sets. We're going to need them.
At home, Emma's moved to the nursery floor, sitting cross-legged with ultrasound photos arranged in a semicircle around her.
"I brought ice cream," I announce.
"My hero." She doesn't look up from the photos.
I settle beside her, handing over the rocky road and a spoon. She eats directly from the container while staring at images of our children.
"What if we can't handle two babies?" she asks quietly.
Her voice cracks on the question, and I know this isn't just exhaustion talking. This is real fear.
"Then we'll be terrible at it together," I say.
She looks up, startled. "That's not reassuring."
"It's honest. Emma, nobody knows what they're doing with one baby, let alone two. We're going to mess up. Constantly. But we'll figure it out."
"What if I'm a terrible mom?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that."
