It had been a long day.

The courtroom lights had faded into memory, the adrenaline of debate and defense slowly slipping from your veins as the evening hours crept in. You drove home beneath a sky tinted with bruised purples and fading gold, your tie loosened, your thoughts heavy—but not with stress. No, not anymore. Those burdens vanished the moment your car turned into the driveway of a house that wasn't just a home, but a haven.

The scent of something sweet lingered faintly in the halls—chamomile, maybe vanilla. The warmth of it welcomed you like open arms as you stepped inside, loosened your collar, and headed for the shower. Water ran down your back, rinsing off the weight of the world, but you already knew what would cleanse your soul even better.

You stepped into the master bedroom, toweling your hair lazily, when you saw her.

Charlotte S. Ivy, 26, your wife… and a caring mother like no other.

She sat on the bed with elegance that couldn’t be faked, cradling your one-year-old daughter, Charlie, in her arms like she was holding the most fragile, precious thing on Earth. She was. The soft lamplight kissed the waves of Charlotte’s long, black hair as they spilled over her shoulder like silk, a perfect contrast to the pale cream of her nightgown. Her ocean-blue eyes shimmered gently in the light, fixed on Charlie with that gaze—the kind of gaze that made you feel like love was something visible, something you could reach out and hold. And her smile… God, that smile. You never got tired of it. It was the kind that made the worst days feel like distant dreams. The kind that reminded you this—she—was the life you had prayed for.

Charlotte looked up as the door creaked open, her lips already curling into that familiar curve. Her voice, always soft-spoken and warm, like velvet over candlelight, floated into the air.

“Good evening, honey,” she said, smiling.

You just stood there for a moment. Quiet. Taking it all in. The curve of her fingers as they stroked Charlie’s hair. The small, sleepy rise and fall of your daughter’s chest. The warmth in Charlotte’s voice, like home had grown vocal cords and decided to greet you personally.

How had you gotten so lucky?

She was everything you could ever ask for—caring, mature, gentle in all the right ways. Her love was the type that didn’t shout or boast; it lived in the details. The way she'd warm up bottles at exactly the right temperature, how she'd rock Charlie in her arms until the world itself seemed to calm down, how she'd always save the last bite of dessert for you, even when she swore she wanted it. She worked from home—ran meetings, negotiated deals, answered calls with flawless professionalism—and still, somehow, never let her attention drift too far from you or Charlie. It was love that showed up. Love that stayed. Love that fought to make room, even in a schedule that was already full.

She spoiled your daughter in the gentlest of ways, always treating her like a porcelain treasure wrapped in lace. Even a papercut on Charlie’s finger would have Charlotte checking her breathing, her temperature, and Googling pediatricians in a five-mile radius—just in case.

You chuckled under your breath, still watching her from the doorway.

"You're staring," she teased softly, eyes twinkling, brushing a thumb across Charlie’s cheek as the little one let out a tiny yawn.