No tears.
I don’t cry.
At least, I didn’t.
But somewhere in the past year, that changed – along with the rest of me.
Now here I am: barefoot on a private Italian island, emerald silk damp at the hem, warm sand between my toes. My four-year-old niece, Lottie, curled against me in matching tulle as she sleeps. Her breath warm on my collarbone, her gentle snore in my ear – and those four words looping in my head:
I want a baby.
And my damn heart won’t stop aching with it.
But then, my heart hasn’t been the same since Sadie crashed back into my life… right around the time my tear ducts came to life.
At first, I thought it was guilt. Regret. The fear that I’d failed her: letting her run off to Ireland with a man who was all kinds of wrong.
But that’s in the past.
She’s free of him now.
Free, and in the arms of my best friend. A man who kept her safe when she needed it most. A man who’s loved her for almost as long as I have. A man who’d move heaven and earth for her… and for my niece.
A smile tugs at my mouth, the weight of the past easing under the glow of today: their wedding day.
My little sister is married.
Actuallymarried.
I run my fingers through Lottie’s curls as I sway us on a seat strung between two palms, the rope creaking softly as I breathe in the night.
The sun’s dipped below the horizon, turning everythingdeep gold. Candles flicker in jars nestled in the sand. Fairy lights twinkle between driftwood poles. Nearby, the long wooden table – once loud with laughter and wine – now sits quiet, scattered with half-drunk glasses, crumpled napkins, the last bites of tiramisu.
Down the beach, the soft murmur of guests dispersing blends with the hush of waves and the chirp of crickets: the fading echo of a perfect wedding day. Effortless, sun-drenched, and Sadie in every way.
I spot her in the surf: champagne silk swirling around her thighs as Theo spins her. She laughs up at the stars and he beams down at her, trousers rolled, shirt soaked, not that he cares. He’s all about his wife. And the feeling’s mutual.
My little sister doesn’t need me any more.
And this ache rising in my chest? It isn’t about her.
It’s not guilt. Or regret. Or the years she suffered and I didn’t know.
It’s this…
I look down at the small body in my arms, and the ache blooms.
I want this.
Not the white dress. Not the ring. Not the vows under the Tuscan sun. Sadie can keep her fairy tale; she’s earned every glittering second.
But me?
I want the kind of love that curls against your chest and trusts you implicitly. The kind that stays. That doesn’t lie. Doesn’t cheat. Doesn’t make you sorry that you cared.
I want a baby.
Not someday.
