"Don't get me wrong," I say softly, resting my hand on his thigh. "I loved performing. I loved being on stage, hearing applause, feeling the lights hit my face, getting lost in characters. I loved the rush. I loved the challenge. I loved all of it."
After graduation, I jumped straight into the theater world—tours, workshops, nonstop rehearsals. I met incredible artists, learned so much, and for a while, it felt like I was living the exact dream I'd built since childhood.
"But," I continue, my gaze drifting to Sammy—still babbling, still wobbling, still perfect—"when I got pregnant... something shifted. And when he was born, it shifted again. I thought theater was my whole heart, my whole identity. But it turns out it was only part of the picture."
I swallow, suddenly emotional in a way that feels soft instead of sad.
"It's like... the thing I thought was my life's passion was just the prologue. And motherhood—being here with him, with you—this is the chapter I didn't even know I was waiting for."
Zach's hand stills on my bump, and I cover it with mine.
"I don't feel trapped or overwhelmed or like I gave anything up," I tell him. "I feel like I stepped into something bigger. Something deeper. Something that makes me feel... whole in a way the stage never did."
A breath leaves me, slow and sure.
"I don't miss working, Zach. Not because I didn't love it—but because I love this more. Being his mom. Being your wife. Building a life that is ours. I wouldn't trade that for any standing ovation in the world."
Zach stares at me like I just reached into his chest and rewired something vital.
His throat works around a tight swallow.
"Jesus, Caroline..." he murmurs, voice rough. "You can't just say things like that and expect me not to worship the ground you're standing on."
He cups my cheek, thumb brushing lightly under my eye.
"You're incredible," he says quietly. "I mean—it floors me. The way you love him. The way you love us. I knew you'd be a great mom, but watching you become one?"
He shakes his head, breath leaving him in a disbelieving rush. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
My heart flips. Hard.
Before I can respond, Sammy shrieks triumphantly—apparently he has conquered the toy truck—and we both turn to look. He's holding it over his head, proud, wobbling like he might tip over forward or backward at any moment.
Zach chuckles and presses a kiss to my temple.
"Just like his mom," he whispers. "Dramatic. Zero balance."
I smack his arm, laughing, and lean into him.
His hand glides over my bump again—slow, reverent, like he's memorizing this exact second.
A beat of quiet. Just the soft thuds of Sammy's feet and the morning sun creeping further into our living room.
Zach turns to me again, expression shifting—serious, intent, glowing with something that looks like awe.
"I know you miss the stage sometimes," he says. "But for what it's worth? I think you're still performing. Just... in a different way."
"What do you mean?"
"You take our little chaos circus here," he gestures at Sammy, "and somehow turn it into magic every single day. You make our home feel like the world's warmest, safest theater. And I get a front-row seat every morning."
My eyes sting.
God, this man.
I lean in and kiss him—slow, thankful, full of every love language we've ever invented together.
He kisses back instantly, hand tightening on my waist like he's anchoring to me.
