I shift the car into park and glance in the rearview mirror, smiling as Charlie babbles to himself, his tiny hands gripping his stuffed fox like it’s the most important thing in the world. His eyes are heavy, fighting off the last bits of daycare exhaustion, but he still manages a wide, sleepy grin when I reach back to unbuckle him.

C’mon, buddy. Let’s go see Mama,

I say, lifting him into my arms. His little body relaxes against mine, warm and familiar, and I press a quick kiss to the top of his head before pushing the front door open.

The smell of something rich and warm immediately fills my lungs—garlic, maybe rosemary, something roasting in the oven. The kind of smell that makes a house feel like home. But it’s not just that. It’s her.

I hear her before I see her, a soft humming drifting from the kitchen, the same way she used to hum to Charlie before he was born. I take two quiet steps into the house, Charlie shifting slightly in my arms, and there she is—standing at the stove, one hand stirring a pot, the other resting lightly on her belly.

I don’t move right away. I just watch.

She doesn’t know I’m here yet, doesn’t know I’m seeing this moment—the way she sways just slightly as she hums, the way she absently rubs her stomach like she’s already comforting the baby growing inside her. The warmth of the kitchen light catches the soft curve of her face, and my chest tightens, just a little.

God, I love her.