“Is going to cry,” Chloe finishes.
“So much.”
And she does.
When we call her an hour later, Mom bursts into tears and promises to bring sparkling cider for dinner to celebrate.
That evening, we gather around the kitchen table —the four of us, soon to be five, soon to be six— and I reach for Chloe’s hand.
“Girls, Chloe and I have some news,” I say.
Ava and Mia look up from their spaghetti, eyes wide and curious.
“You’re getting married,” Mia says. “We already know that. We’re flower girls.”
“Wearegetting married,” Chloe confirms, squeezing my hand. “But we have other news too. You’re going to be big sisters.”
I watch their faces as they process this.
Then Ava gasps. “We’re getting a baby?”
“We’re getting a baby,” I confirm. “In about seven months.”
“A real baby?” Mia’s eyes are huge. “Like, a tiny baby we can hold?”
“A real baby. Your little brother or sister.”
The squeals are deafening. Both girls launch themselves out of their chairs, crashing into us. Mia wraps her arms around Chloe’s middle, pressing her ear to her stomach.
“Hi, baby,” she whispers. “I’m your big sister Mia. I’m going to teach you everything.”
“I’m going to teach you more,” Ava argues. “Because I’m older.”
“By thwee minutes!”
I catch Chloe’s eye over their heads. She’s laughing and crying, and I know I am too.
This is my family. My whole world. And it’s about to get even bigger.
Eight years ago, Rachel left and I thought my life was over. Thought I’d never trust anyone again. Never let anyone close enough to hurt me.
But Chloe walked through my door in a snowstorm, took charge of a flour explosion, and slowly —piece by piece— put me back together.
She chose us. Chose me. And I chose her, too. Even when she was terrified. Even when it would have been easier to run.
And now we’re here. Building the life I was too scared to dream about.
“I love you,” I mouth to her.
“I love you too,” she mouths back.
Mom arrives with enough food to feed the neighborhood and takes approximately five hundred photos. The twins spend the entire evening planning nursery colors and arguing about baby names. Chloe’s hand never leaves mine.
Later, after the girls are asleep and Mom’s gone home, Chloe and I stand in what will become the nursery— the guest room that’s currently full of storage boxes.
“We need to clear this out,” she says. “Paint it. Get furniture.”
“We have time.” I wrap my arms around her from behind, my hands settling protectively over her stomach. Over our baby. “But yes. We’ll make it perfect.”
