“Hi, baby girl,” I breathe, stunned. “We didn’t see you coming.”
Everyone’s hearts melt.
But mostly mine.
Her tiny fingers curl around my pinky as she lets out a grumpy little squeak, and I swear I’ve never heard anything more powerful or adorable in my life.
Holy shit.
I have a baby.
“I think her name should still be MacGyver,” I say solemnly, gazing into her round face.
Annabelle scowls as she reaches for her daughter. “Stop.”
“Shelookslike a MacGyver,” I protest. “Scrappy. Determined. Possibly plotting her escape already.” This child is definitely going to be walking and running and climbing out of her crib sooner than most babies. I can tell she’s a genius.
Smartest baby in the hospital.
Her mother isn’t so sure as she coos, “Awww. Baby girl looks like she’s about to poop.”
“Which proves my point—strategic and efficient. Definitely a MacGyver.”
The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Is that going to be her actual name?”
“Absolutely not,” Annabelle says. “No. He’s delirious. We’ll have to workshop it, we were expecting a boy.”
The baby squeaks again, her tiny nose scrunching like she’s got opinions and none of them are good.
“Were you going to name a boy MacGyver?” the nurse wants to know as she helps Annabelle with her IV.
“No,” Annabelle says at the same time I say, “Yes.”
They both roll their eyes.
Our baby girl squeaks again—tiny, grumpy, perfect.
“See?” I beam. “That’s my girl. She approves.”
Epilogue
Bronte
One year later . . .
I don’t remember asking for any of this.
Not the balloons. Not the forty-seven people in my personal space. Not the cake that looks like a woodland fairy exploded. And certainly not the itchy tutu they’ve stuffed me into like a chubby, puffed-up marshmallow who likes being smothered in pastel tulle.
But here we are.
I’m one now, which means my parents have completely lost their damn minds.
My dad—who I used to think was the calmer of the two—is currently standing on a chair yelling “Everyone Look Over Here! She’s about to Touch the Cake!” like I’m a rare, majestic bird about to land on a perch.
His phone is in one hand, and his face is sweaty, because instead of worrying about throwing that brown ball around, he’s always worried about me.
Hisspawn, he calls me.
