The kitchen erupts in conversation. Mr. Stag makes his way into the kitchen and starts giving out bear hugs.
"Another grandkid!" Mr. Stag booms. “I’m totally winning this race, Tim-bo. Three to nil!”
Uncle Tim and Tucker’s Uncle Thatcher start arguing that this isn’t the sort of thing they should compete over. I silently wonder if there’s anything this family doesn’t compete over.
"Congratulations," I say to Emerson, who beams at me.
"Thank you! I'm so excited. I think I'm going to take some time off when the baby comes. Really be present for those early months, you know?"
"That's wonderful," Judge says warmly. "There's nothing wrong with prioritizing family."
Mr. Stag nods enthusiastically. "Best decision your mother and I ever made, me staying home with you boys. You can't get that time back."
My chest tightens. I smile and nod, like this is fine, like I'm not drowning in the implication that good parents stay home. Neither Tucker nor I have any plans to leave the workforce.
More people. Tucker's cousin Stellan mentions that he metsomeone. More cheers. Someone's brought another dog. The noise level is overwhelming.
"Sloane?" It's Judge, touching my arm. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just—it's a lot of people."
"Let's sit down." She guides me to the living room, to a comfortable chair. People gather around—well-meaning, loving, overwhelming.
"So about childcare," Mr. Stag says, pulling out his phone with a calendar app. "I'm thinking Tuesdays and Thursdays, I can take the babies. Juniper has court those days, but I'm free."
"And I can do Mondays," Aunt Alice offers. "Cara, you're off Mondays, right?"
“In the off-season, yes.”
"We should set up a rotation," Judge says. "Make sure Sloane and Tucker have consistent support."
They're planning. Making schedules. Deciding when they'll take my babies without asking if I want that.
"What about nighttime?" someone asks. "We should set up a night rotation."
"I can help with that," Lena volunteers. “Especially when the Fury are on the road.”
"And I can set up laundry service,” Emerson says. “This company, Green Cheeks, does cloth diaper delivery?—"
"Wait." My voice comes out too loud. Everyone stops and looks at me. "I appreciate all this, but—we haven't even discussed—I mean, Tucker and I need to figure out what we want first."
"Of course," Judge says smoothly. "We're just offering options. You don't have to use any of this."
But the planning continues. Who's good with infants. Who has experience with twins. Someone mentioning their friend who had preemie twins, and here's what worked. Someone else bringing up sleep training.
I know this is the point of a helping shower. Apparently. But it all just feels like a hot mess. I’m out of control, and I’m sweating. How am I going to be a present parent? Will I even see these children with 30 other people fighting over who gets to raisethem? This is the total opposite of what I’m familiar with, and it doesn’t feel right, either.
I’m a damn Goldilocks with no idea what “just right” would even look like.
Tucker is across the room, talking to his brothers. He's laughing at something Alder said, entirely at ease in this chaos.
He doesn't notice I'm drowning.
"Sloane," Odin says quietly, sitting down next to me. "You okay? You seem overwhelmed."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
