I couldn’t fail him.
Logan came three years later, and Catherine’s pregnancy was difficult. She was on bed rest for the last three months. I hired nurses and made sure she had everything she needed while managing a three-year-old and a business that was finally turning serious profit.
When Logan was born a month early, small and struggling to breathe on his own, I spent three days in the NICU watching him through an incubator. Terrified I was going to lose him before I even got to know him.
He survived. Got stronger. Came home.
By the time Kai was born, two years after Logan, I thought I knew what I was doing. Thought the third time would be easier because I’d already survived the infant stage twice.
I was wrong.
Kai had colic. Screamed for hours every night. Nothing soothed him except being held and walked around the house in endless circles. Catherine would take the first shift, then wake me at two in the morning when she couldn’t handle it anymore.
I’d walk him through the house, bouncing and swaying and singing songs I barely remembered the words to. His little bodywould be rigid with discomfort, fists clenched, face red from crying.
And then suddenly, he’d relax. Melt into my chest. Fall asleep with his mouth open and his breathing soft against my neck.
Those were the moments that made the exhaustion worth it.
Catherine died when Kai was eight. Car accident on a wet road. Instant. The police said she didn’t suffer.
Small comfort when I had to tell three boys their mother wasn’t coming home.
I raised them alone after that. Built the empire while making sure they had everything they needed. Donovan stepped into the role of second parent before he was even a teenager. Kai became the wild one who needed constant supervision. And Logan just got lost somewhere in the middle.
I did my best. But clearly it wasn’t enough, because Logan has turned into a man I barely recognize, and I can’t figure out where I went wrong.
Now I’m getting another chance.
Another baby. Another opportunity to do better.
And maybe this one will be a girl.
The thought makes me laugh out loud. Three sons, and I’ve never even considered what it would be like to have a daughter. Would she look like her mother? Would she have Samantha’s sharp eyes and sharper mind? Would I know how to raise a girl when I barely figured out how to raise boys?
I hope it’s a girl. I hope I get to experience that.
But even if it’s another boy, I’ll love him just the same. I’ll do better this time. I’ll be present and engaged and make sure this child knows he’s wanted.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kai.
Kai: We should start building the nursery this week. I already have ideas.
Me: Your ideas usually involve fire hazards.
Kai: That was ONE TIME, and I was sixteen.
I smile and set down the phone. My sons are excited. Already planning, preparing, and treating this like the blessing it is.
Which makes Samantha’s reaction even more concerning.
She should be happy. Scared, maybe, but fundamentally happy. Instead, she looked devastated when she told us that the pregnancy was the worst thing that could have happened instead of the best.
I tell myself it’s normal. First pregnancy, unexpected, with three men in an unconventional arrangement. Of course she’s overwhelmed.
But something in my gut says it’s more than that.
I’ve built an empire by trusting my instincts about people. Reading the tells that indicate when someone is lying or hiding information. And every instinct I have is screaming that Samantha is hiding something significant.
