“You have seventeen filing cabinets, Julien.”
“Sixteen. One is for archives.”
“That’s not better. And what about the changing station?” she continued.
“In the nursery.”
“Which is also your office?”
“Former office.”
“And the rocking chair?”
“Also in the nursery.”
“And storage for diapers, wipes, clothes, bottles, three car seats, the stroller? Thetriplestroller that’s the size of a small bus.”
“It’s only the size of a large sedan.”
“And three swings, three bouncers, three of everything because there are THREE BABIES!”
“I have a storage plan.”
“Julien.” She walked into the room, her hand on her lower back, moving with the grace of someone who was carrying approximately forty pounds of baby. “This apartment is nine hundred square feet.”
“Nine hundred and forty-three square feet.”
“We don’t have room for three babies.”
I stared at my laptop screen, at the carefully designed nursery layout I had spent weeks perfecting. At the color-coded zones for sleeping, changing, and feeding. At the optimizedtraffic flow patterns. At storage solutions that would maximize vertical space.
She was right.
The apartment was too small.
How did I miss this?
“We need a house,” Athena said gently.
I calculated EVERYTHING. I have spreadsheets for spreadsheets. I have backup plans for my backup plans. I have—“We need a house,” I repeated, my voice hollow.
“A bigger house.”
“Significantly bigger.”
“With room for a nursery.”
“Multiple rooms,” I said, my mind already racing, already spiraling, already calculating square footage and mortgage rates and property taxes. “We’ll need separate spaces for sleeping, playing, storage—”
“Julien.”
“—and a home office for me, and space for your healing practice, and—”
“Julien.”
“—adequate closet space, and a kitchen large enough for three highchairs, and a dining area that can accommodate future growth, and—”
“JULIEN.”
