“Definitely,” Aiden says. “She’s already part of the team.”
The pancakes finish cooking, and Mason insists on carrying the plate to the table himself, moving with exaggerated care like he’s handling something fragile. Syrup ends up everywhere—on the table, the floor, his sleeve—and no one rushes to clean it up.There’s no point until he’s done eating, and messes are just a part of life.
I look around the kitchen—the lived-in counters, the mismatched chairs, the man flipping pancakes and the boy telling stories—and something settles quietly inside me.
This is home.
Not the one I imagined when I was younger. Not the one I thought I lost. The one I built anyway. After breakfast, the house settles into a slower pace, the kind that invites lingering instead of rushing.
Mason drifts toward the living room with his dinosaur tucked under one arm, telling an elaborate story about a heroic pancake rescue mission that only makes sense to him. Aiden wipes down the counter methodically, humming under his breath, while I remain at the table for a moment longer, hands wrapped around my coffee, watching the morning unfold. There’s no urgency pulling at me anymore, no checklist demanding immediate attention.
Clover & Mint doesn’t need me hovering over it anymore.
The bar is thriving in a way that still surprises me when I stop to think about it. After the grand re-opening, the momentum didn’t fade—it grew. I hired a manager I trust, someone who understands the culture we built and protects it fiercely, which means I can finally step back without feeling like I’m tempting fate.
With maternity leave looming, that decision matters more than I expected. I visit the bar because I want to, not because everything will fall apart if I don’t, and that distinction has given me space to breathe.
Aiden’s career has shifted too, though in a way that feels quieter and steadier.
Making Battalion Chief didn’t change who he is, but it sharpened the responsibility he already carried. He leaves forshifts with the same calm focus, comes home tired, and still insists on being the one to handle bedtime stories whenever he’s around. The IA investigation that once loomed so large is a closed chapter now, referenced only occasionally by new paperwork or a joke from the crew.
David is part of our lives in a way that no longer feels weird.
Mason FaceTimes with him every week, sprawled across the couch, proudly showing off school projects or retelling stories I know David has already heard. Visits are planned and followed through on, holidays split with care instead of tension. David settled into Phoenix, started dating Robin, who is kind and dotes on Mason when he visits. Most importantly, David does what he says he will. Our co-parenting isn’t perfect, but it’s functional and respectful, and that has given Mason a sense of stability I didn’t know he was missing until he had it.
I move more slowly through the house now, my body reminding me constantly that I’m carrying more than just myself. Seven months pregnant means everything takes a little longer, from standing up to bending down to deciding whether it’s worth getting back up once I’ve sat. I prop my feet on the ottoman and let myself rest without apology, one hand resting over my belly, feeling the occasional flutter of movement that still makes me smile every time.
Aiden catches my eye from across the room as he finishes drying the last plate. He mouths, I love you.
I mouth it back, happily.
The doorbell rings just as Mason’s dinosaur lets out a triumphant roar that echoes through the living room.
I don’t even have time to wonder who it is before the front door opens. “Aunt Carlie’s here!” she announces. “And I brought the good donuts. Not the healthy ones Harper tries to trick me into eating.”
“Nice of her to knock first,” Aiden says, smirking.
I shrug. “She’s turned over a new leaf.”
Mason whoops from the couch and bolts toward the entryway, nearly slipping on a smear of syrup on the floor. Aiden lets out a resigned sigh, the kind that says he saw this coming and accepted it anyway, while I just shake my head and laugh. Carlie sweeps in like she owns the place, boots kicked off without ceremony, a pink bakery box already open in her hands.
“Chocolate glazed,” she says proudly. “Sprinkles. And one of those ridiculous cream-filled things that feels illegal to eat.”
“You’re my favorite person,” Mason declares, grabbing a donut with both hands.
Carlie grins. “I know.”
The kitchen descends into cheerful chaos almost immediately. Donuts join pancakes, crumbs scattering across the table as Mason launches into a detailed retelling of his week, complete with exaggerated sound effects and dramatic pauses. Aiden tries halfheartedly to impose order, then gives up when syrup ends up on the counter again.
“Not sure Millie likes all this sugar,” I say, picking at a chocolate-glazed, cream-filled monstrosity I can’t stop eating.
Carlie grins. “Babies need sugar. Trust me. I’m a pediatrician.”
Aiden snorts. “Is that what they taught you at medical school? You should see about getting a refund on your degree.”
Carlie ignores him and slides into the chair beside me and eyes my belly with a familiar mix of reverence and mischief. “So, how’s my future niece doing today?”
“She’s very active,” I reply. “Mostly when I’m trying to sleep. Or think. Or work. Or any other time it’s super inconvenient.”
