Putting our daughter to sleep has become my favorite part of the day.

She always fights it—talking, giggling, stalling—but the moment she loops her tiny arms around my neck and whispers her little secrets, I forget every stressful thing that happened before walking into her room.

Tonight was no different.

I tucked her blanket around her and brushed her hair back, humming the lullaby she insists only sounds right when I sing it. Right when I thought she was drifting off, she grabbed my shirt and whispered something that made me pause.

“I want a baby,” she murmured sleepily. “A brother… or a sister. I don’t care.”

I blinked, trying not to laugh. “Well,” I whispered back, “I can talk to Mommy about it.”

She nodded—half asleep—completely confident I could make anything happen. I kissed her forehead before gently closing her door behind me.

As I stepped into the hallway, I heard dishes clinking softly from the kitchen. She was still cleaning up dinner; she always insisted on doing it even when I told her to leave it for me.

I leaned against the doorway, watching her rinse her hands and dry them on the towel hanging from the oven. She looked peaceful. Soft. Home.

“What?” she asked, noticing the expression on my face.

I walked toward her, sliding my hands around her waist. “Guess what she wants,” I said, still amused.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“She wants a sibling,” I told her. “Brother or sister—she doesn’t care.”

She opened her mouth, maybe to tease me or question it, but I didn’t give her the chance. I tilted her chin up and closed the small distance between us.

“Give the girl what she wants,” I whispered against her lips.

She laughed quietly, and I felt her smile melt into mine as I kissed her—slow, gentle, like the whole world stopped around us.

In that moment, with her in my arms and our daughter dreaming down the hall, I realized there was nothing I wouldn’t give my girls.

Nothing.