“Wait? For what? I thought you said—”
“Don’t. Move a muscle,” she warns, wagging her finger, before padding out of the kitchen.
I peer around the corner to see her standing at the foot of the stairs, shouting August’s name.
“Come here please, darling.”
“No!”
I raise my brows at her, smirking. “That’s all you.”
My wife flips me off, oh so maturely sticking her tongue out at me.
“Careful, sunshine. Stick your tongue out at me once more and you’ll be reaping the consequences tonight.”
Calla crooks a brow, gliding up three stairs, while whispering, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“August!” she calls, louder this time. “Don’t you want to give daddy his present before we leave for football?”
“Football!” I hear his excited yell, following by loud sound of his feet hitting the floor as he runs. No matter how much we tell him not to, he hardly listens.
Not a second later, our son appears at the top of the stairs, cheeks flushed red and grinning. He looks so grown up in his little t-shirt, black football shorts, knee high socks and trainers.
“Come on, little man.” Calla reaches out her hand for August to take, slowly leading him down the stairs one at a time. “Let’s surprise daddy before we go.”
I follow behind my two-favourite people in the entire world – my own little family – treading back into the kitchen.
“Up, Daddy!”
Grinning, I reach for August’s raised arms, balancing him on my side. He stays there for a minute, tiny fingers reaching for the clasp of my snapback before he wriggles away, plopping himself down onto the marble countertop.
“Daddy open!”
“Okay, mate.” I ruffle his dark brown hair. “You wanna help me?”
Smiling, he grabs at the tissue paper, accidentally knocking down the gift bag in his haste.
August’s lips form an ‘O’. “Uh oh.”
“Upsie daisie,” Calla coos, rightening the bag. “It’s alright, no harm, darling.”
Together, August and I pull another bundle of tissue paper out of the bag, until finally my fingers touch a soft material. I unfold it, my brain slowly catching on to how small the item of clothing is; much too small for August to fit into.
“I can’t wait to meet you, Daddy,” I read aloud, turning to my wife who has tears in her eyes and her hands clasped together at her chest. “Calla…”
“Daddy, here!” August thrusts two items into my chest before he wiggles to be put back down.
I peer down at the two blaringly positive pregnancy tests while Calla lets our son run freely, my heart beating a million miles an hour, banging against the protection of my ribcage.
“Surprise!” Calla smiles, her voice watery with tears.
I think I let out a choked sound, wrapping my arms around her waist and bringing her to my body. I kiss the top of her head, her temple, her nose, her lips, tasting the salt from our tears.
Placing a hand on my wife’s still flat stomach, I ask, “How far along are you?”
“I’d say about six weeks.” She tips her head to the digital pregnancy test. “But we’ll have to wait for the doctor’s appointment to be sure.”
I nod, my cheeks aching with the force of my grin. “Does anyone else know?”
