“Except then some chaos agent shows up with a goat…” His voice lightens.
“And ruins everything,” I finish.
“Or fixes it.” He says it quietly, but I hear the hope underneath.
We’re quiet for a minute—just breathing, existing. It’s nice.
“Your turn,” he says eventually, clearly done with heavy topics. “Little Poppy stories.”
“I ran a wedding business at recess. Second grade.” I grin into the darkness.
“Of course you did.” He sounds delighted, his chest rumbling with laughter. “Please tell me you have photos.”
“Somewhere. I had a whole setup behind the jungle gym. A dollar per ceremony. Two dollars for the deluxe package with flower petals—dandelions I picked from the soccer field.”
“Entrepreneurial.” He sounds impressed, fingers playing with my hair.
I nod, strangely proud. “I made bank until the principal shut me down.”
“Why?” He sounds genuinely offended on eight-year-old me’s behalf.
“Apparently, eight-year-olds can’t legally marry people.” I can still remember my indignation.
“Fascists.” He says it so seriously that I snort.
“Right? I had a whole system. Color-coded certificates. A briefcase.”
“Tell me it was pink.” I can hear his grin.
“Hot pink. With Lisa Frank stickers—dolphins and rainbows everywhere.”
“Perfect.” He’s playing with my hair now, his fingers gently working through the tangles from our earlier activities. “What else?”
I debate how much to share but realize we’re already neck-deep in vulnerability. “I’m an only child and was desperate for siblings. I used to beg my parents for a brother or sister every birthday.”
“What did they say?” His hand stills in my hair.
“That I was enough. It sounds sweet, but it felt like code for ‘we can barely handle one.’“ I laugh, though it’s not really funny.“So I used to marry my Barbies to each other so they could have families.”
“That’s—” He starts, but I cut him off.
“Sad, I know,” I interrupt before he can confirm what I’ve always thought.
“I was going to say sweet.” He kisses my temple, so gentle it makes my chest ache. “You’ve always been building families.”
Why does that make me want to cry? Maybe because no one has ever framed it that way before—not as something pathetic or lonely, but as something… purposeful.
“I guess I have,” I manage, blinking hard against sudden tears.
“All those weddings, bringing people together, creating new families every weekend.” His arms tighten around me. “That’s a gift, Poppy.”
“Even when I create chaos in the process?” My voice is small.
“Especially then. Perfect families are boring. The messy ones are the ones that last.”
I melt into him a little more, feeling something settle in my chest.
“Hey, Poppy?”
