"My brothers will want to help too," Tucker adds. "Alder especially. He's great with kids."
"And your aunts,” Tucker’s dad jumps in. “Imagine Lucy taking them out in her jogging stroller?”
They keep talking—about cribs and diaper services and the best pediatricians in Pittsburgh. About how Mr. Stag will build the nursery furniture himself because he's currently obsessed with woodworking. About how Judge knows a wonderful doula who helped them with the twins.
Each suggestion is well-meaning. Each offer is genuinely kind. But with every word, I feel smaller. More trapped. Like I'mdisappearing into their plans, their schedules, their perfectly coordinated family system.
"We should probably set up a nursery at our house too," Judge says. "For when the babies stay over. It'll be easier if we have everything they need."
"Stay over?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
"Well, yes." She looks surprised. "So, you and Tucker can have date nights. Or so you can rest. New parents need breaks."
“Tucker and I aren’t dating,” I manage to say.
"Of course, of course." Mr. Stag waves a hand. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. It's just—we're excited, you know? A grandchild. Two grandchildren! It's wonderful news."
“You’re going to be a Pappy,” Judge grins. “I think I’m a Mimi.”
Mr. Stag throws a napkin at her. “Whatever you say, Mee-maw.”
“Ugh.” She laughs. “Can you imagine?”
I can't imagine. Can't imagine being part of a family this large, this involved, this... present.
“It’s been a long time since we had a baby at Stagsgiving,” Tucker’s dad continues and then, realizing he’s said a confusing word, he turns to me. "We do our own version of Thanksgiving dinner since half the kids have professional sports games on the actual day. Alice always manages to find a few hours where all of us can make it. Total chaos.”
"You'll need to come to those," Judge adds. "It's important the babies grow up knowing their family."
"I haven't agreed to any of this," I say quietly.
The table goes silent. Three sets of eyes turn to me—Tucker's worried, his parents' confused.
"Agreed to what?" Judge asks gently.
"Any of it. The schedules, the sleepovers, the family dinners." My voice is shaking now. "You're making all these plans about my babies without even asking what I want."
"Sloane—" Tucker starts, but I cut him off.
"No. This is exactly what I was afraid of." I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "Everyone deciding what's best for me, what my life should look like, how I should raise mychildren. I didn't agree to be absorbed into your family system. I didn't agree to weekly dinners and coordinated schedules and?—"
"We're just trying to help," Mr. Stag says, looking genuinely bewildered.
"I know." And that's what makes it worse. "I know you mean well. But I already spent five years in a relationship where everyone made decisions about my life. Where I disappeared into someone else's world." I look at Tucker, tears burning my eyes. "I told you I couldn't do that again."
"This isn't the same thing," Tucker says, standing. "Sloane, we're not trying to control you. We're offering support."
"It feels like control." My breath is coming too fast now. "It feels like you're all planning out my life without me. Like I'm just supposed to smile and nod and be grateful."
“I think we came on too strong—" Judge starts.
"I know what you meant!" The words come out too loud, too sharp. "I know you're trying to be kind. But I can't—I can't do this. I can't be part of this."
I grab my purse from where I'd set it on a side table. Tucker reaches for me, but I step back.
"I need to go."
"Sloane, please?—"
