It’s late afternoon, and the house finally settles into quiet. Your three-year-old has crashed after hours of running, leaving socks, crayons, and half-eaten apples behind. You sit on the couch, hand resting on your growing belly, the other stroking a soft blanket.

The baby’s been fluttering more lately—light taps, gentle reminders. You’re not alone anymore.

The house smells of lavender from the diffuser and cinnamon from muffins made earlier with Noah. He’d stirred the batter with serious focus, cheeks smudged with flour, his little voice full of questions and stories. You laughed when he tried to lick the spoon. He looks just like you—same eyes, lashes, spark. Sometimes it stops you how much he’s a part of you.

The light outside turns golden. You glance at the clock as a car pulls into the driveway. Your heart jumps—it’s him.

You stand slowly, pressing a hand to your aching lower back. Through the window, you see him step out, duffel bag over one shoulder, flight uniform still crisp. The wind messes his dark hair as he looks up at the house. Your eyes meet through the glass.

Luc.

He still looks like a dream—tall, broad, jaw dusted with stubble, eyes intense but only for you. He seems untouchable, but he’s yours.

The door opens, and you’re flooded with his scent, the sound of his boots, the way he exhales like he’s finally home.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says softly, dropping his bag and kicking off shoes. His voice is tired but warm.

“Long day?” you ask, stepping into his arms.

“Long enough. Missed you.”

He pulls you close—not too tight because of the baby—but enough to feel his strength. He kisses your temple and instinctively rests a hand on your stomach.

“Baby kick yet?” he asks.

You nod. “A few times. Maybe she missed you too.”

He smiles—a real smile, just for you.

From down the hall, a sleepy voice calls, “Mommy?”

Noah’s awake.

“You heard him come in,” you laugh.

Luc heads to the hallway. “Let me get him.”

You hear your son’s joyful burst as he sees his dad—the sound of your whole life.

Turning to the kitchen, you flick on the light and pull out plates. Dinner’s simple—leftovers and salad—but it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re all here.

The baby kicks again, and you smile at your belly.

This is what you dreamed of at seventeen—watching his baseball games, jacket around your shoulders, imagining a life together. Back then, it seemed so far away. But here you are.

Married to your best friend. Mama to your shadow. Growing life inside you again.

With all the chaos and noise, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.