There wasn’t a rule book for parenting. Well, there were lots, and that was the problem, they all contradicted each other. There wasn’t one right way to do things, and kids were so different that even if one thing worked with one kid, it wouldn’t necessarily work with the other.
I liked rules. I lived my life adhering to and thriving on rules. Rules were a clear path to what should be done.
One of the reasons I’d thrived in the military and moved up in the ranks like I had was that there was an order to everything. No gray areas. I knew exactly what was expected of me and what I should expect from my team. There was no ambiguityin my responsibilities, no room for interpretation. In the Navy, there was a manual for everything: how to make your bed, how to clean your weapons, how to treat a shrapnel wound, and how to fold your uniform into a perfect, government-approved rectangle.
With parenting, though, there wasn’t a chain of command. No one called a meeting at oh-six-hundred to lay out the day’s objectives. There was no “good enough” in fatherhood, just a parade of choices I prayed wouldn’t break my girls for life.
How the fuck was I supposed to know if I was making the right decisions or not without black and white parameters? And it wasn’t just one of them. I had two lives I could fuck up in the span of a heartbeat. One bad call. One wrong yes, or unwise no.
I honestly wondered how parents avoided nervous breakdowns from the weight and stress of the responsibility. Maybe when you have your child’s life in your hands from the beginning, or if you have some time to prepare for it, then it’s not as worrying and overwhelming. But I was going to drive myself insane thinking that every single decision I was making was wrong.
“We get to put on pretty dresses and take pictures?” Joey asked for the dozenth time.
“Only if you want to,” I clarified again for Andi, who had been quiet since she’d agreed to go to the shoot.
“And Luke and Leo will be there?” Joey followed up for the twelfth time.
“Yep,” I confirmed as I found a metered spot three shops down and put the car in park.
I barely recognized the street as I pulled to a stop. It used to be populated with independently owned businesses. Across the street from the bridal shop, there was a new bakery called Sweet Temptations that looked inviting, Sweet Temptations, and the church on the corner, Patterson Hardware, Paws & WhiskersPet Store, and the recording studio were all still there. Other than that, it looked like chain stores had invaded, Starbucks, Chipotle, CVS, Subway, T-Mobile, Chase, and Panera had replaced the mom-and-pop shops. It was like the soul had been stripped away.
Pushing that thought from my mind, I asked, “Okay, who’s ready to play Barbie and try on dresses?”
“Me! Me! Me!” Joey’s hand flew in the air and then back down as she unbuckled her seatbelt.
“I am.” Andi’s response was quiet and reserved, like the girl herself, but I was honestly thrilled to get one at all.
We got out and walked around the building, down the alley to the back of the boutique. As we approached, I could hear music, loud music, coming from the rear entrance, which was propped open by a large, empty flowerpot. Both girls took my hands as we went inside, and it was like stepping into an alternate timeline of my life. The place looked nothing like the old shop I remembered from childhood.
The blush pink that had covered the walls during my youth when I used to come over every day after school and during summers when I wasn’t working, volunteering, or had practice for whatever sport I was playing was replaced with a clean, almost surgical white. It was two stories still, but the staircase was different. The banister was now a strip of matte black metal, and the oak balusters had been replaced by sheets of clear glass. You could see straight through the steps to the ceiling above, which had been painted black to match the fixtures. They’d ripped out the acoustic ceiling tiles and left the ductwork, pipes, and beams exposed, so you felt like you were in a super-chic factory or maybe a Scandinavian art gallery that happened to be obsessed with wedding dresses.
Even the floor was new, covered in wide, gleaming planks of white oak that creaked softly with every step and made mehyperaware of the fact that my boots probably didn’t belong in here. Through the window separating the backroom, I could see the main floor was broken up into clusters of plush, low furniture—couches and chairs in pale hues and golds, arranged around marble coffee tables with stacks of what appeared to be bridal and entertainment magazines. Every surface was immaculate and organized, but not in a cold way, warm somehow. It felt welcoming, in spite of being so much fancier than I expected. There was even a faint, pleasant smell, like vanilla and lilies, not at all like the chemical haze of dry-cleaned polyester.
But what knocked me hardest was that even after all the updates and changes—after all the Instagrammable angles and the relentless march of modernization—Betty’s original vibe still hummed through the shop. There were old photos of her and the family tucked into gilded frames on a sideboard, and a hand-lettered sign I remembered from years ago still hung above the register: “No dress too grand, no love story too small.” Someone had left the bowl of butterscotch candies out on the counter, just like always, and the bell on the door, even the back door, made the same cheery “ding!” when we entered.
I’d seen photos of the store online—Bailey was a pretty aggressive marketer, at least from what I’d seen—but they hadn’t done it justice. There was a warmth to the place, despite all the modern edges, and a surprising calm beneath the chaos of tulle, lace, and the steady thump of whatever early-2000s pop playlist was booming through the speakers.
I barely had time to process all of this before a familiar voice called. “You guys made it!”
Bailey appeared, not from the staircase like I’d expected, but from behind a curtain. The last time I’d seen Bailey Bliss, she was fifteen years old with braces. Now, she was a grown woman, in her thirties, carrying herself with a kind of effortless, unforcedconfidence. She looked a little like Betty, the same eyes and full face but with much better posture. Her hair was still the same honey color but styled in a way that made her look more like a CEO than the kid who used to beg me for piggyback rides.
I’d seen enough photos online to know what to expect, but there’s something about reuniting with someone in real life, after only viewing their curated online persona, that always hit different. She was dressed head-to-toe in black, with simple silver accent jewelry and shoes that looked expensive even to my untrained eye. A notebook was tucked under one arm, and she had a phone balanced in the other hand, thumb already flicking across the screen.
“Hi!” She smiled and walked toward me with her arms just as wide as her smile. She lifted up on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around my neck, and gave me an extra squeeze. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You, too.”
She dropped back down onto her heels and turned her attention to the twins. “Hi, I’m Bailey.”
“This is?—”
“Hi, I’m Joey, and this is my sister Andi.”
I watched as Joey introduced herself and her sister and wondered if she’d done that her entire life or if she’d become more independent after her mom passed, like Billie had.
“Hi, Andi. Hi, Joey.” Bailey beamed. “It’s so nice to meet you. Would you guys like to put on some dresses and take pictures?”
“Yes.” Joey clapped her hands, jumping up and down, and Andi nodded.
