Spencer loved her life.

She was a Sargent in the NYPD, she had two beautiful kids, and a wife she would kill for.

Spencer was in her car, her beloved 1967 Chevrolet Camaro, with her son, Indigo, in the backseat.

She was driving home from a shift, and you had asked her to pick him up from daycare.

Indigo was telling her about his day, and she was nodding along, offering small comments while she drove.

When she pulled into the parking lot for your apartment building, she parked in your spot, and the got Indigo out.

She got him out of his car seat, grabbing his dinosaur-patterned backpack and her own messenger bag.

When they got into the building’s elevator, Spencer scooped her son up into her arms, holding the five-year-old on her hip.

She held the elevator for one of their neighbours, Mrs. Blake, who frowned lightly.

Mrs. Blake was not a fan of lesbians or black people, is which Spencer was both.

But you had told her she had to be nice, so she would be.

When she entered your shared apartment, she was greeted with the sight of you, the love of her life, cooking. Olive was in her high chair, smiling and making baby noise with the dog, Thunder, laying under it.

You were dancing around the kitchen as you made dinner, and you twirled over to give Indigo a hug and kiss her.

The world seemed to stop when your lips made contact. You tasted like blackberries and honey, a homey sort of taste that brought her back, way back.

She remembered the first date, the first kiss, the first anniversary, the wedding night. All of this was, in her head, concrete proof that you were absolutely perfect.

She was pulled out of her thoughts and the kiss when Indigo tugged on her pant leg. “Mamma, Mamma, I wanna watch my show!”

You laughed, your head falling into the crook of her neck. She smiled, walking over to Olive and taking her out of her high chair as you got Indigo situated in the living room with Paw Patrol.