“Yeah, no way,” Cody says, leaning back in his chair, one arm sliding around Karissa’s shoulders.
“Nope,” I grin. “There’s two.”
Dad starts laughing, shaking his head like he genuinely can’t wrap his mind around it. “Well, Son, you don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
Mom’s out of her seat again, pulling Megan into a hug so tight I’m not convinced she can breathe. “Twins,” she keeps saying. “Oh my word.Twins.”
I catch Ella’s eye again and nod toward her. “You knew, right?”
She nods. “Yeah, I—”
Jesse snaps his head toward her. “What do you mean you knew?”
“She was there, Jess,” I remind him.
“You didn’t say anything!” he says, half offended, half laughing.
“HIPAA,” Ella fires back with a grin.
“Oh, whatever,” Jesse mutters, rolling his eyes as the table dissolves into laughter all over again.
I squeeze Megan’s hand, her jitters finally calming down. All the waiting, all the doubt, and still God showed up—nothing crazy, just faithful.
Epilogue
Mason - Eight Months Later
Easter morning starts with two happy babies.
Six weeks old. Fed in bed at the same time, Megan propped against the headboard, one baby tucked on each side while I’m in the kitchen flipping eggs and buttering toast.
It’s become our Sunday rhythm these last few weeks, the only morning of the week we’ve actually figured out. We didn’t take the girls to church until they were two weeks old, back when Megan could finally get around without wincing every time she sat up.
Those early days…gosh, they were something.
I got two weeks off work and it still wasn’t enough. Leaving Megan to recover from a major surgery while taking care of two newborns? Impossible. And she would’ve drowned if we didn’t have a village stacked three miles high.
Between my mom, Megan’s mom, and Ella, Karissa, Addison…even Cody and Jesse, someone was always here. Like shifts. Diapers changed. Meals dropped off. Arms always reaching to hold a baby so Megan could nap, shower, breathe.
We never once felt alone.
I carry a plate back to the bedroom—an egg sandwich and a cup of coffee for Megan—and she looks up from her little nest of pillows and babies like I just brought her diamonds.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice sleepy-soft. She shifts Lydia onto her shoulder. “She’s done. You can take her. Naomi on the other hand…”
“Taking her time?” I say, reaching for Lydia, the overachiever, always first at everything.
Lydia Faith was the one who made her entrance head down, ready to go. Naomi Grace? Breech. Stubborn. The reason Megan needed a C-section.
Now, here we are. Easter morning. Two months later. Two babies with two wildly different personalities already.
I step out of the bedroom, weaving around the two bassinets like I’m navigating an obstacle course. We have two of everything. And our house? Not exactly built for it.
If I thought our place was pink before, I was delusional.
Pink swings. Pink bouncy seats. Pink blankets, pacifiers, bottles, burp cloths, car seats. Hair bows in every shade between bubble gum and cotton candy.
