Mom’s voice wobbles a little. “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. Really.”
Dad clears his throat. “I’ll start building a crib. Or two.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Just focus on your recovery, alright?”
“Recovery’s pretty much done,” he says, voice thick with emotion he’s pretending isn’t there. “Now I’ve got grandbabies to meet.”
“Soon,” I promise.
When we hang up, I just sit there for a minute, phone still in my hand, staring out at the skyline.
Everything feels big and solid at the same time, like every hard thing I’ve fought through finally led here.
I’ve got my team. My daughter. The woman I love.
And now two more reasons to fight for every damn thing that matters.
The house settles after dishes. The TV is low, the dishwasher humming. Sophie’s on the end of the couch with her tablet, legs tucked under her.
“Hey,” she says, not looking up. “If Charlotte’s moving in after the playoffs, should I clear a shelf in the hall closet? The one with the board games?” She glances over, gauging me. “And… do you think she likes cinnamon raisin or plain bagels? I’m making a list.”
It hits me how thoughtful she’s being about this. “Bagel diplomacy. Smart play,” I say, smiling. “Maybe ask her?”
She chews her lip, then nods. “Yeah. Also… it’s gonna be weird.” A beat. “But I think it’ll begoodweird.”
“Me too,” I say, because honesty matters. “We’ll make space. Together.”
She exhales, tension easing. “Okay.” Then, practical again: “Can I make a group chat? For, like, logistics and snacks? No dad jokes allowed.”
“Deal. But if it turns into a meme war, I’m leaving,” I say.
Ten seconds later, my phone pings and it’s the group chat with me, Sophie, and Charlotte. Sophie fires off two messages:
Taking orders: bagels, cereal, anything you’re picky about, Charlotte?
Also we might need a shoe rack. Our entryway is a disaster.
Charlotte replies almost immediately:
Plain bagel, strawberry jam. And I fully support the shoe rack.
Then:Thanks for thinking of me, Soph.
Sophie grins, satisfied, and heads upstairs with her tablet. Halfway up, she looks back. “Night, Dad.”
“Night, kiddo.”
A minute later, Charlotte texts.
Sophie’s handling this so well. You raised an incredible kid.
I smile, typing back:
She makes it easy most days.
I sink back into the couch, the house quiet and full in a way it hasn’t been in years.
The Final’s ahead. The twins. The woman I love.
