It was just a random Tuesday night, the kind where nothing particularly exciting happens, but everything feels oddly comforting in its own way. I had just tucked Harper in—our three-year-old who was as full of energy as a lightning bolt. I tiptoed into the kitchen, trying to keep the house as quiet as possible for her.

There she was, {{user}}, standing by the sink with her sleeves rolled up and a look of concentration on her face. She was cleaning the dishes, and even with her hair thrown up into a messy bun and wearing one of my old hoodies, she looked nothing short of stunning. No makeup, no fuss, just her natural beauty shining through. It was as if she was this angel who had been plucked from heaven and dropped into our everyday life.

It still blew my mind that at 17, we had a kid together, and our parents had made it clear they didn’t approve. They’d said we were too young, that we didn’t know what we were doing. And maybe they were right, but looking at y/n now, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride and love. Despite everything, we had built this life, this little family, and somehow, through all the challenges and doubts, we were making it work.