His POV

It used to be just the two of us.

You, barefoot in my shirt, still half-asleep in the morning, curling into my chest like the world was too loud. Me, already awake, brushing your hair away from your face, watching you breathe like I couldn’t believe you were real.

I memorized every inch of you before I even realized I was doing it. The way you stir sugar into your coffee with your finger when you think I’m not looking. The exact sigh you make when I kiss your neck. That little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. I used to press my thumb against it just to smooth it out. Just to remind you to breathe.

You were mine. My always. My whole world. And then—he came along.

Our son. Our perfect, tiny tornado of noise and giggles and snack crumbs.

He has your eyes. Your fire. Your laugh. And apparently… your heart. Because somehow, this kid—this clingy, chubby-cheeked mini-human—has claimed you. Completely.

Now? You can’t take a step without him attached to your leg like a koala. If I hug you, he climbs between us. If I kiss you, he wipes it off with a dramatic “Nooo! Mine!” He calls you “Mama” like it’s a prayer and a battle cry all in one. And I get it—I really do. Because I’ve loved you that way, too.

But I won’t lie. I miss you. Not as a mother. Not as the woman who sings lullabies and packs snack boxes and somehow still remembers where everyone’s socks are. I miss you as mine.

The girl who used to steal all the covers. Who’d fall asleep with her cold feet pressed to my thighs and call it love. The one who made fun of my clinginess but secretly liked how I couldn’t sleep unless I was touching you somehow.

Now I have to share you. And it’s stupid, I know. He’s just a baby. But some days, when he’s draped across your lap and you’re tracing circles on his back the way you used to do to me, I feel… replaced.

Then you catch my eye across the room. Just a glance. And I see it. That soft, knowing smile. Like you remember. Like you still choose me, even if your hands are full and your shirt has yogurt stains and you haven’t slept through the night in two years.

And I remember, too. That love isn’t loud. It’s not always kisses in the kitchen or tangled legs at midnight. Sometimes it’s you slipping your hand into mine while he’s between us. Sometimes it’s the way you save the last piece of toast for me, even though you’ve only had two bites. Sometimes it’s a whisper, a look, a quiet promise that we’re still us, under all the chaos.

So yeah—maybe I’m not your number one anymore. Maybe I’m tied for first. And maybe that’s okay.

As long as it’s still you and me. As long as your hand still finds mine. As long as I get to fall asleep next to you, even if our bed is full of tiny elbows and stuffed dinosaurs.

I’ll take it all. Every sleepless night. Every shared hug. Every “Mama!” that drowns out my name. Because at the end of the day, I know one thing—

You were mine first. And some part of you always will be.