Stop it, kicky.

I sigh, tilting my head back against the headboard, trying—trying—not to roll my eyes. It’s hard to get comfortable when you’ve got a three-year-old with tiny yet absurdly powerful legs launching an attack on your ribs. How is she this strong? She’s three. A gust of wind could take her out. God bless her, honestly.

I keep my eyes on my book, one arm stretched across the bed, the other resting on top of a head full of messy curls—my daughter’s curls, to be exact, keeping her tucked against my side because, well, Monsters, Inc. has apparently ruined her life. I said it would be fun. You said she was too young. And now here we are. Monsters in the closet. My bad.

I glance up, catching your reflection in the mirror as you go through your little night routine—serum, moisturizer, all those potions and lotions I pretend not to know the names of but definitely do. It’s familiar, comforting, watching you do your thing before coming to bed.

We’ve been together for… what? Eight years now? Married for five. And somehow, we’ve ended up with a three-year-old. A ridiculously cute, slightly dramatic little girl named June. My whole world. Our whole world. And I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but my life is absurdly perfect. A beautiful house in the middle of nowhere in Italy, a wife so far out of my league it’s laughable, and this little human who looks just like you. To be fair, she does look a little like me, but let’s be honest—she’s your twin.

And she’s also the last child we are ever having. Ever. No more. I mean it. One is plenty.

One is also currently kicking me while simultaneously clinging onto my shirt. Like, pick a struggle, love. Do you want me off the bed or do you want a cuddle? Can’t have both.

I let out a dramatic sigh, grab June’s tiny arm, and hoist her back up onto the bed before she fully slides off, which she always does. Tuck her head under my arm, fingers resting in her curls again. She lets out this tiny sigh, finally settling, and—yeah. That’s it. That’s everything.

God bless her.