Page 53 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“Fine,” he says.

Diane smiles, then looks at me again. “Across the road, there’s a little café, Brewed Awakening. Very family-friendly. They do simple food, and half the neighborhood practically lives there.”

That sounds… dangerously convenient.

Also potentially expensive.

But I’m tired, overwhelmed, and not entirely ready to improvise dinner in a kitchen where the olive oil looks imported by monks.

“That actually sounds perfect,” I say.

Diane beams, pleased with herself. “You’re going to do very well here.”

That's either encouragement or prophecy, and I’m not sure I trust either one.

Still, I smile. “Thanks, Diane.”

She waves us off with the kind of cheerful authority that suggests she’ll absolutely ask follow-up questions later.

We step outside into the crisp Chicago air, and I immediately see the café across the street.

Brewed Awakening.

Brick front, big windows, warm light. One of those cozy modern places that somehow manages to look expensive and welcoming at the same time.

“This one?” I ask Oliver.

He looks across the street and nods. “It has muffins.”

“I’m sold.”

The second we walk in, I understand why Diane said half the neighborhood lives here.

It smells like coffee, vanilla, and fresh bread, and there's this warm hum of conversation that feels lived in instead of loud. Hanging plants spill from shelves, mismatched wooden tables are scattered throughout the room, pastries gleam behind glass, and a chalkboard menu displays handwriting far too pretty to be trusted.

There are people on laptops. Two moms with strollers. A guy in a suit pretending he’s not having an emotional relationship with his espresso. A little toy corner by the window with books and blocks and a miniature kitchen.

“Oh,” I say softly, because honestly? That’s adorable.

Oliver spots the toy corner too. “Can I go there after?”

“Yes,” I say. “But first food. Because if I release you into the tiny fake kitchen before you eat something, I may never get you back.”

We step up to the counter.

A brunette with bright eyes and a black apron glances up and smiles. She looks around my age, maybe a little older, and has the sort of easy warmth that makes you feel less like a customer and more like a person who accidentally wandered into someone’s living room.

“Hey,” she says. “What can I get started for you?”

I glance at the menu.

Then immediately realize I’m too tired to be ambitious.

“Okay,” I say. “Potentially stupid question. What do you recommend for a five-year-old who’s suspicious of vegetables and committed to pancakes?”

She grins. “Grilled cheese, fruit cup, and one of the mini hot chocolates if you’re feeling generous.”

I look at Oliver. “Thoughts?”