"And you pretend you hate it."
He slides me a dark, narrowed stare that vibrates through my chest. "I never said I hated it."
I bite back a smile and rest a hand over my rounded stomach.
Our son, Finn, kicks in response, as if chiming in to say he's part of this circus, too.
"Is the little guy beating you up again?" Brax asks, with pride in his voice.
"Yep," I chirp.
Aurora swings around and spots us again. Her face splits into a giant grin, reminding me of my mother, who she’s named after. She squeals, "Ma-ma! Da-da!"
Brax instinctively moves toward her.
She launches into a tiny jump over absolutely nothing, lands on her bottom with an oof, and freezes. She looks at Brax.
He gives her a funny face.
She laughs.
I relax, glad she's not crying.
Brax drags a hand down his face. "She's going to give me a heart condition."
"She's two."
"She's reckless."
"She's your daughter," I shoot back.
He throws me a lethal, amused glare. "And your clone. Double the danger."
He's not wrong.
Our home is full today. Balloons, streamers, and signs decorate the rooftop. A table's piled high with cupcakes and our family's everywhere. Zara rocks her newborn daughter, Sloane, in a soft wrap, while the twins sit on Sean's lap, shoving blueberries into their mouths with alarming enthusiasm. Fiona's chasing her toddler son, Zavier, who's inherited his father's impossible speed and grin. Kirill's egging him on to run faster.
Uncle Luca and Finn stand next to the grill, flipping burgers. Three years ago, I couldn't have imagined either of them here, smiling freely, wearing matching aprons that say WORLD'S BEST GRANDPA in bold print.
They're both here almost every week, dropping off pastries, reading Aurora bedtime stories, and making sure we never forget we have family.
Everything is better than anything I imagined was possible. I watch my daughter wobble back to her feet, brushing grass off her sundress. It's the one with tiny red flowers that Brax insisted she needed so "she matches her mama."
She gets halfway upright before beelining straight toward me. Her cheeks are pink, her curls wild, her arms outstretched. She shrieks, "Mamaaaa!"
I crouch, or attempt to, because my stomach is far too present to allow anything graceful. She crashes into my legs with the full force of a two-year-old missile. I laugh and scoop her up, kissing her forehead. "There you are, birthday girl."
She pats my cheeks with cake-sticky hands. "Boom."
I laugh, repeating, "Boom," which is her newest word.
Brax reaches us, plucks Aurora out of my arms, swings her once, then settles her against his hip. He asks her, "You running the neighborhood yet, princess?"
She nods solemnly, curls bobbing. "Yes!"
He kisses my cheek, lingering longer than necessary and with zero shame. "You good?"
"You ask me that every twenty minutes," I tease.
