If I was being honest with myself… it had stripped any lingering romanticism from the idea of motherhood and left only the truth of it.
Add in the fact that I hadn’t exactly had a beautiful childhood, and you could say my feelings on it were set in stone.
Nathan, on the other hand, loved the idea of a family — the way it would look for him, the way it would fit neatly intothe version of himself he liked to present. But when he shared his hypotheticals, the weight of parenting had always landed somewhere outside him. He would talk about how great it would be to play with the kids and take them to work events to show them off, but it was alwaysmein his vision doing the work.
The late nights. The sacrifices. The quiet, mentally loaded, unrelenting work.
He didn’t want to be a father. He wanted a family for show — a doting wife who took care of everything, kids who were seen and not heard.
And that was when I learned that my husband wasn’t the only one who could keep a secret or manipulate a situation. Because I had an IUD put in and I never told him.
“I think both of you are right,” I answered, shaking off my thoughts. “Obviously, priority needs to be on getting as many mattresses and bed frames to as many families in need as possible. I also agree that the mental impact of living in those circumstances deserves attention. But I wonder if we could take it a step further — make it more than a one-time delivery.”
Grace perked up. “What do you have in mind?”
“Maybe we start a ‘Dream Partner’ program,” I said slowly, the idea forming as I spoke. “Each family we help is paired with a volunteer from the team — players, staff, even fans — who can check in, help connect them with other resources. It’s not just about the bed. It’s about stability.”
Maven smiled, eyes lighting with approval. “That’s good. I love that. It makes it sustainable.”
“And maybe,” I added, “we host a ‘Sweet Dreams Night’ at one of the home games — donate a portion of ticket sales to the program, let fans bring bedding donations. Kids we’ve helped could come to the game, meet some of the players. I think seeing familiar faces again, and realizing people care, would make a huge impact.”
Grace tapped her pen against her notepad. “Oh, and we could do a short video series — player spotlights about what home means to them, or how sleep affects performance. Sponsors would eat that up.”
My mind sparked with another idea, and before I could stop myself, I was leaning forward, words tumbling out fast. “What if we threw a gala in the holiday season? Between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We could call it the Sweet Dreams Soirée — black-tie, but warm and whimsical. We invite the families we’ve helped, the sponsors, the team. Ensure every kid who needs a bed for the holiday season has one, raise money for next season’s beds, celebrate the kids who’ve thrived. It could become an annual tradition.”
Maven’s smile spread wide, eyes glittering. “You two are going to make me jealous I handed this off.”
Her laughter filled the room, rich and genuine, and I felt something stir inside me — a flicker of pride, of purpose. For the first time since Nathan had dropped this initiative in my lap in the form of a control move disguised as a gift, I wasn’t thinking about how it had started. I was thinking about what it could be.
The girls and I continued to hash out our ideas, namely focusing on whether just a couple of months was enough time to pull off a gala. Grace had zero doubts while Maven and I wondered — especially with her pulling back. I was new to the area, and I wasn’t sure I had the connections necessary to make it happen on such short notice. But with Grace and Maven’s help, and maybe some assistance from my husband… it was doable, right?
We were focused, heads bent together and debating logistics when there was a knock on the door.
We all swung to face it just as Shane McCabe let himself in.
“Coach!” the girls bellowed in unison, hopping up to hug him. He had his hands full — a cardboard drink carrier in one,a paper bag in the other — but managed to juggle it all with practiced ease, setting everything down on the conference table just in time to catch them each in a quick embrace.
“Brought peace offerings,” he said, holding up the carrier with a grin. “I heard through the grapevine that this meeting didn’t have snacks. Can’t have that.”
Maven peered over his shoulder. “Are those smoothies?”
My heart stalled in my chest.
“From JuiceFix on Kennedy,” he said, tapping each of the cups. “Two mango dreams, one berry paradise, and one green machine.”
“Ick,” Grace said, her nose wrinkling. “Please tell me the green machine is for you. Pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say no thanks to kale in my sweet treat.”
The girls laughed, swooping in to grab their drinks — both of them taking a mango — and continuing to tease Shane for his choice.
I stayed back, smiling but uncertain. I hadn’t seen him in a setting this casual since…God, since college. And the last time he’d handed me a smoothie, it had been from our spot in Boston, the one that became a part of our relationship the way a song does for some.
Smoothies were our thing.
What does it mean that he brought me one today?
“I see the party’s already started without me,” he said, his voice easy as his gaze finally found mine. The grin softened, the teasing fading into quiet apprehension. “Hello, Ari.”
Ari.
