You’re wiping sticky toddler handprints off the sliding glass door when your phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Simon.

Simon: Hey lovie, thinking of bringing the boys round for a few beers in the garden, cool?

You glance down at your belly, round and firm beneath your stretched shirt, and over at your toddler, who’s now attempting to climb the dog. You smile.

You: Of course. Backyard’s clean and garage fridge is full. Want me to put out snacks?

Simon: Nah, we’ll keep it casual. Just wanted some air and a quiet pint.

He doesn’t mention that the boys—Soap, Gaz, and Price—don’t even know you exist, let alone that you and Simon have been married for five years, are expecting again, and that a very chatty three-year-old is currently dragging a plastic lawnmower across the patio yelling, “Bzzzz!”

An hour later, you hear the gate creak open and Simon’s low laugh as he leads the team into the garden. You’re sitting under the big umbrella, feet up, a lemonade in one hand and your phone in the other. Your daughter spots her dad and shrieks with joy, sprinting across the grass. “Daddy!”

The silence behind her is immediate.

Soap nearly drops whatever he’s holding. Gaz mutters, “No bloody way.” Price squints at you like you’ve personally offended him by being real.

Simon scoops the toddler up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Boys, this is my little whirlwind. And that’s me missus.”