I shut the fantasy down hard, slamming the door on it before it can take root any deeper. That happiness isn't meant for me.
The saleswoman apologizes quickly, professional embarrassment coloring her voice. "I'm so sorry. That was presumptuous of me. When is the baby due?"
Lily pauses, a small line appearing between her eyebrows. "I actually don't know exactly." She looks down at her phone, scrolling through messages like she might find the answer there. "I want to get things that are absolutely essential. So the parents don't have to worry about spending too much on the basics."
She glances up, meeting the saleswoman's eyes with earnest sincerity. "I already set up a subscription service for diapers and wipes... Things like that will be delivered regularly to their house. But what else do they really need? What can't they do without?"
The saleswoman's expression softens into something maternal and approving. "You're very thoughtful. Most people just buy whatever's cute." She starts walking, gesturing for us to follow."Let's see. Baby bottles are essential, you'll want several. Crib sheets, at least three or four sets because there will be accidents. Onesies in different sizes because babies grow shockingly fast in the first few months. Socks. They always need more socks than you think because those things disappear like magic."
They move through the store together, the saleswoman pulling items from shelves while Lily examines each one with careful consideration. I follow a few steps behind, hands in my pockets to keep from accidentally knocking something over.
I feel like Gulliver in Lilliput. A giant among fragile miniatures. Everything is so small, so impossibly delicate. My hands are too rough for this world, too calloused from holding guns and breaking bones and doing the kind of work that leaves permanent stains you can't wash away no matter how hard you scrub.
These hands have killed. Have hurt. Have enforced consequences that left men bleeding or broken or begging.
They don't belong anywhere near tiny socks with little animals embroidered on them.
But Lily doesn't seem to notice the incongruity. She's focused completely on the task at hand, on choosing the right items, on making sure her family has what they need. Her attention is absolute, the kind of concentration she brings to everything she does, whether it's cooking a meal or selecting baby clothes or taking care of people who don't know how to accept care.
The joy on her face is genuine. Uncomplicated by resentment or calculation. She's thinking about someone else, caring about someone else, putting their needs first without any expectation of gratitude or return.
It's beautiful. She's beautiful.
Not just physically, though she is that too. But the way she moves through the world, the way she offers care like it's the most natural thing, like it costs her nothing even though I suspect it costs her everything.
She picks up a board book at the last minute, black and white geometric patterns designed for newborn vision. Runs her fingers over the thick cardboard pages. "This too," she says, adding it to the growing pile in her arms. "It's not strictly necessary but I want the baby to have something more than just practical items. Something for joy."
Something for joy. Like joy is a commodity you can purchase and wrap up and give to someone you love.
Maybe it is. Maybe that's exactly what she's doing.
We make our way to the cashier, Lily's arms full of carefully chosen items. I reach for my wallet automatically, the instinct to pay deeply ingrained.
"No," Lily says firmly, shifting the pile to free one hand and block my reach. "I'm paying. This is from me."
"Let me—"
"Artan." She looks at me directly, blue eyes serious and determined. "This is important to me. I want to do this myself. Please."
The please undoes any argument I might have made. I back off, nod, let her have this victory even though every instinct in me wants to take care of it for her, wants to make her life easier in whatever small ways I can.
She pays with her card, the total significant enough that I see her hesitate for half a second before confirming the transaction. But she doesn't back out. Doesn't second-guess the decision.
We load everything into my car. The Audi RS6 Avant looks absurdly out of place parked in front of a baby store, all aggressive lines and matte black paint, the kind of vehicle that announces danger rather than domesticity.
"Where to next?" I ask once we're both settled inside, the bags carefully arranged in the back seat.
Lily hesitates, her hands twisting together in her lap. "I was thinking of taking these to my brother. But I don't want to impose on your time. You've already done so much."
"It's no imposition." The words come out automatic, immediate, entirely true. "I'd like to see where you grew up."
Uncertainty mixed with something warmer crosses her face. "Okay. Thank you."
She gives me directions and we drive in comfortable silence, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional direction murmured from the passenger seat.
The neighborhood changes as we go. Less polished. More lived-in. The kind of area where people actually know their neighbors, where front porches have chairs that get used instead of just serving as decoration. Trees line the streets, old enough that their roots buckle the sidewalks, creating that particular kind of urban imperfection that comes from decades of growth.
"That one," Lily says, pointing to a modest single-family home halfway down the block.
