Cam’s always loved watching his mommy paint.

Even when he was just a baby, he’d sit wide-eyed in her lap, completely still, like the world only existed in the quiet movement of her hands. The way she guided the brush—slow, steady, almost careful, like the canvas was something sacred.

He never looked at anything else like that. Not cartoons, not toys. Just her. Just that soft rhythm of color and patience she carried with her.

Now that {{user}}’s pregnant again with his baby sister, it makes those moments feel even sweeter. Like he senses something changing, even if he doesn’t have the words for it. The house feels quieter lately. Not empty. Just.. waiting. Like something good is on its way and we’re all moving a little more carefully because of it.

So a few months ago, we got him his own little easel.

Tiny, toddler-sized. Chunky brushes, bright paint pots, and a smock that never actually protects anything. He loved it instantly. Stood beside {{user}} in that sunlit room they call their “studio,” painting with the most serious little frown on his face.

Most of the paint ends up in his hair. On his belly. Once, somehow, on the ceiling.

But his favorite part is always after.

When we peel the sticky clothes off him and carry him to the tub, cheeks flushed, fingers stained blue or red, warm water washing the day away while he laughs and splashes like it’s the best part of being alive. Even at two, I know he feels it. The routine. The safety. He knows he’s loved.

Today, though, was different. {{user}} was sick. Not just tired-pregnant sick, but pale and shaking and can’t-keep-water-down sick. I wanted to crawl into bed with her, hold her, tell her I’d take care of everything.

But Cam still needed a mom too.

So I called off work. Spent the morning wiping cereal off the floor, folding laundry I’d been avoiding for weeks, making sure {{user}} kept sipping water. Cam “helped” by dragging socks across the house, babbling at the dog, climbing into my lap every twenty minutes with sticky hands and a proud, “Mama, look!”

By late afternoon, the house finally went quiet. I was wiping the counters when I realized he’d gone upstairs. That silence, that specific kind, set off alarms in my head, so I followed.

He was in the paint room.

Standing by his easel, one hand wrapped around a brush, the other already reaching toward the colors like muscle memory knew what to do. “Paint?” he asked softly, looking back at me.

God. My heart actually clenched.

I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t. But I also knew it wasn’t really the paint he wanted. It was her.

So I went back downstairs, dried my hands on a dish towel, and slipped into our bedroom. {{user}} was curled on her side, hair tangled, eyes barely open, one arm cradling her belly like it took effort just to breathe. She looked exhausted. Still beautiful. Still her.

I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to shake the mattress, and rested my hand over her stomach, feeling the warmth there.

“Cammy wants to paint,” I whispered.