I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that changed in twenty-four hours.
Two heartbeats.
I keep seeing that ultrasound screen every time I blink, Charlotte’s hand tightening in mine, the way her voice broke when she whispered,“Two.”
Twins.
It still doesn’t feel real.
When I make coffee, I move through the kitchen on autopilot, and the ordinary details hit harder than they should: the half-empty syrup bottle from pancake Saturday, Sophie’s Final poster leaning against the wall, one of her hoodies draped over the chair.
The same house. The same morning.
But everything’s different now.
When Vanessa told me she was pregnant, all I felt was pressure. Static. Like my life was suddenly on rails I hadn’t chosen.
This time, there’s none of that.
Just peace.
It’s terrifying and steady all at once, like standing on solid ice after months of rehab, finally trusting it to hold.
I scroll through my phone and stop at the photo Charlotte texted late last night: two faint shapes in gray, side by side, the caption just a single heart emoji.
My chest tightens.
I don’t know how to explain it, even to myself, but those tiny blurs already feel like the center of everything.
Upstairs, the floor creaks. Sophie moves around, humming under her breath.
She loves Charlotte, but this is still a lot to take in. I need to do this right.
I pour another cup of coffee, take a long breath, and glance toward the stairs.
Time to talk.
Sophie shuffles into the kitchen a few minutes later, still half-asleep, her hair a tangle of curls and last night’s braid. She’s wearing one of my old team hoodies, sleeves swallowed past her hands.
“Morning,” she mumbles, climbing onto a stool.
“Morning, kiddo.” I slide a plate of pancakes in front of her. “Chocolate chip. Thought we’d get an early start.”
Her eyebrows lift. “It’s not Saturday.”
“Consider it a bonus round.” I smile, but my pulse hasn’t settled. The smell of syrup and butter fills the room, familiar and grounding.
She yawns, pouring too much syrup. “You look weirdly happy for someone who has practice later.”
“Do I?”
She nods, chewing. “You’re smiling. Like, a lot.”
I laugh under my breath. “Guess I’ve got good reason.” I sit across from her, elbows on the table. “Hey, Soph. Can we talk about something?”
Her fork pauses mid-air. “Uh-oh. That’s never good.”
“Relax,” I say, smiling. “It’s not bad. Promise.”
