She doesn't seem to mind. Says these early years with the kids are precious, that she'll have plenty of time to teach when they're older.
I think she's just making excuses because she loves being a mom. Loves the chaos and mess and endless questions that come with a three-year-old who inherited her mother's curiosity and a one-year-old who's determined to put everything in his mouth.
"How was the meeting?" Ivy asks, breaking into my thoughts.
"Good. We finalized the deal with King and the Savage Riders for the joint charity run next month." I shift Charlie to my other arm. "Carter sends his love. Says he and Alice are planning to visit next weekend."
"With Maya?"
"Of course with Maya. She's been asking about Rose nonstop apparently."
Ivy smiles. "Rose has been asking about her too. I swear those two are going to be inseparable when they're older."
I can picture it. My daughter and my niece, now ten years old and as smart as ever, thick as thieves. The thought makes me smile.
"Daddy?" Rose appears at my knee, holding up a book. "Read to me?"
"After dinner, sweetheart. Mama's making—" I pause, sniffing the air. "What are we having for dinner?"
"Lasagna," Ivy says. "It's in the oven. Should be ready in about twenty minutes."
"I'll set the table after I put Charlie down for his nap."
"He's not going to nap," Ivy warns. "He fought me for an hour earlier."
"He'll nap for me." I stand, settling Charlie against my shoulder. "Come on, little man. Let's get you down."
Charlie protests, but I've learned the trick. I walk him around the house, patting his back and humming, something low and rhythmic that my own father used to hum to me when I was small. Within five minutes, Charlie's eyes are drooping. Within ten, he's out cold.
I settle him in his crib, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. He looks like me: same dark hair, same sharp features. But when he smiles, he's all Ivy. Sweet and full of joy.
My son. Named after my father, Charlie Blake. Carrying on the legacy of a good man who died too soon.
"You're good at that."
I turn to find Ivy in the doorway, watching us.
"Practice," I whisper, careful not to wake Charlie. "Plus, he's exhausted. Just needed help admitting it."
We slip out of the nursery, pulling the door mostly closed behind us. Rose is in the living room, sprawled on the floor with crayons scattered around her, drawing something that might be another dragon or might be a very colorful blob.
Ivy takes my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen. "Come help me finish dinner."
I follow her, because I'd follow her anywhere. These domestic moments like cooking dinner, putting kids to bed, discussing weekend plans, they're everything I never knew I needed.
She pulls the lasagna from the oven while I toss a salad and set the table. Rose appears every few minutes with updates on her drawing, each version apparently more elaborate than the last.
"Daddy, can Uncle Saint come to dinner tomorrow?"
"Maybe, sweetheart. I'll ask him."
"And Uncle Canvas? And Uncle Diesel?"
Ivy laughs. "If we invite all your uncles, we'll need a bigger table."
"Then we get a bigger table!" Rose announces this like it's the most obvious solution in the world.
"We'll see," I tell her, ruffling her curly hair. "Go wash your hands. Dinner's almost ready."
