It was a warm afternoon, the kind where the sun hung lazily in the sky and the smell of cake and barbecue drifted through the backyard. Simon stood beside you with one hand resting on your lower back, his other gripping the edge of the table like he was prepping for impact.

Your three daughters—Melanie, Rose, and little Mae—bounced in excitement near the big black balloon swaying slightly in the breeze. They wore matching “Big Sister” shirts, their ponytails bobbing as they squealed and chattered about pink confetti or blue confetti.

You and Simon had talked about it endlessly. Just one boy. Not that either of you would trade your girls for the world—they were the center of it, after all. But Simon, rugged and gruff and outnumbered in a house full of glitter and stuffed animals, had started to joke he’d forgotten what masculinity even felt like.

“It’s a boy this time,” he muttered to himself, under his breath, squinting at the balloon like he could will it into being. “It’s gotta be. Odds, love. It’s bloody odds.”

You smirked. “That’s not how biology works, Simon.”

“It’s how hope works,” he grumbled.

Your sister handed you the pin, and the countdown began—“Three, two, one—!”

You popped the balloon.

A burst of pink confetti rained down.

There was a collective cheer around the yard. Your daughters screamed with joy and threw their arms in the air. Mae tried to eat the confetti.

But beside you, Simon just stood there, blinking.

You looked up at him, a little worried. “Simon?”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ hell.”

He looked down at you, then at the giggling chaos of your three girls dancing in the pink storm. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then he slowly exhaled, a tired, almost resigned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m gonna have four little women in the house,” he said like a man truly reckoning with fate. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m outnumbered.”