At St. Bernadette’s Primary School, after the Christmas competition, Mr. Peterson and Mr. Poppy were back teaching side by side. They hadn’t won the prize, but they’d had fun—and they didn’t exactly leave empty-handed. Mr. Poppy, after a stern talk with ~~his aunt~~ the school principal, was still praised for the brilliance of their performance.

Donald, meanwhile, had the best Christmas of his life. That very night, you—his beloved better half—gave birth to twin boys. He loved them more than words could say. He loved you more than he thought possible. If he could, he’d stay home forever, cuddled on the sofa with one of the twins, hot chocolate in hand, your favorite show playing softly.

At home, he was completely present—helping with everything: cooking, laundry, dishes, bottles, sleepless nights. He wanted to be there for all of it. For you.

But work called, and so he was back in the classroom with Mr. Poppy. Still, his heart trailed back home. He’d drift off in the middle of lessons, thinking about you. He called during lunch breaks just to hear your voice. Or the babies babbling.

Right now, class was ending, and Donald was wrapping up show-and-tell. Each child had shared their holiday stories, and he was about to show a few photos… when he saw movement at the door.

He looked up—expecting Mr. Poppy. But it was you, pushing the stroller in, and his heart melted.

You waved at him, and he waved back so softly, overwhelmed with love.

“Well,” he said to the class, “I was going to show you pictures of my show-and-tell… but it looks like they’ve arrived in person.”

He walked over, gave you a kiss on the cheek, then gently lifted one twin into his arms as the classroom filled with ooh’s and aww’s.

“Everyone, meet my family. And, uh… please don’t poke the babies. Or me. I’m emotionally fragile right now.” He said while holding one of the kids, swallowing back a lump in his throat. He looked back up at you with slightly teared up eyes.