“We’re having a baby.”
They lay there wrapped around each other for a long time, talking about nurseries and names and all the things they’d need to do in the months ahead. Who would tell whom first. Whether Carlos would cry. Whether Esmeralda would immediately start knitting. They laughed and cried and talked over each other and it was messy and perfect.
Sarah thought about the road that had brought them here. The lawsuit settled. Her parents in treatment, money set aside for them in a trust they couldn’t touch. Her reputation not fully restored but solid enough that it didn’t keep her up at night anymore. The inn thriving under their care—the Writers Inn, with its hand-painted sign and its bookshelves in every room and the framed first page of Lizzie’s novel hanging behind the front desk.
And now this. A baby.
“I love you,” Sarah said.
“I love you too.” Lizzie pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes still wet, smiling so wide it looked like it hurt. “We should probably get out of bed at some point.”
“Probably.”
Neither of them moved. Outside, Key West hummed with Sunday morning life—scooters buzzing down the street, tourists heading toward Duval, the roosters still crowing like they had important announcements of their own. Inside, Sarah held the woman she loved and thought about the life growing somewhereacross the water in Fort Lauderdale, and she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Not lucky. That wasn’t the right word. Lucky was what happened to you. This was something she’d fought for, built, chosen—every day, through every hard thing, she had chosen this.
She felt whole.
They stayed in bed until noon, making plans and promises and love. The rest of the world could wait.
Today was theirs.
THE END
