Before I pull away, I drag a knuckle lightly across her palm.
She bursts into laughter.
Full. Bright. Immediate.
Her hand clamps around my finger instead, like she’s claimed a better prize.
It lands somewhere in my chest—the heat of that tiny grip.
For a second, I let her hold on.
Then, I straighten.
Caroline’s watching me with the expression of a mother who’s seen a hundred people interact with her child.
“Take care, Caroline.”
She shifts the girl back onto her hip. “Safe travels.”
They move on. The toddler watches me over her shoulder, still clutching the stuffed elephant, still grinning like we’re in on something together.
I stand there for a moment. Not thinking about Caroline. Not even close.
That door closed so completely I can’t find the seam.
I’m thinking about the laugh. The grip of those small fingers. The warmth of a hand no bigger than my palm.
I wonder if this is why my parents want me to have babies soon.
Not the dynasty language. Not the bloodline rhetoric or the boardroom version of family.
Just the joy. The chaos. The weight of a small hand.
A house that isn’t quiet like mine.
Siblings. Someone to tuck in—more than one.
A woman I love watching me get it wrong and laughing anyway—the way Jane laughs, like the world is absurd and wonderful, and totally worth showing up for.
I imagine the way she'd look pregnant. Round with my kid. Barefoot in a kitchen that's ours—not mine, not hers,ours. And holding a baby—our baby—with that same stubborn, protective fierceness she brings to everything.
Mine.
I had braced against the idea of babies—fortified. Shift my edges. Send it wide. Keep it out of the slot. Never let it become a scoring chance.
But it’s here now, clear and unforced.
I don't just want a family. I want a family with Jane.
The thought should terrify me. Eight days on an island. Three weeks of distance. No labels. No promises.
But today I just feel ready. The thought anchors me.
I pick up my bag and walk to my gate.
Icall my parents before boarding. My mother answers first—and always on the second ring.
"You're early." Not a question. Eleanor Prescott tracks her son's movements with the casual omniscience of a woman who runs a litigation team of forty-five.
