Rory's head snaps up. "Flowers?"
Ryan grins and pulls a bag of silk flower petals out of the craft store bag. They're pink and white and look surprisingly realistic. "See, baby. These are special petals just for you to practice with. You can throw them as much as you want, over and over again."
She slides off her chair and runs over to inspect the petals. She picks one up, rubs it between her fingers, and frowns. "These aren't real," she says.
"No, but they're perfect for practicing. And you can use them over and over again."
Rory looks up at him, her little face serious. "But Daddy, these are bad for the 'viro mint."
Ryan blinks. "What?"
"The 'viro mint. You say we have to take care of the Earth. And fake flowers are bad. You said."
I press my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing. Ryan looks completely blindsided.
“I—you're right," he says slowly. "But these are just for practice. We're not going to throw them away. We'll keep them and reuse them."
Rory shakes her head. "But the bees don't like them."
"The bees?"
"The bees need real flowers, Daddy. You said so. Remember? When we planted the garden? You said we do real flowers because bees need food and fake flowers don't have that and that big flower farms are good. You said."
Ryan looks at me, his expression a mix of pride and exasperation. "She's three. How does she remember that?"
"She's your daughter," I say, grinning. "She remembers everything."
Rory crosses her arms, clearly waiting for Ryan to come up with a better solution. He sighs and kneels down in front of her.
"Okay. You're absolutely right. The bees do need real flowers. So how about this: I'll bring you real flower petals to practice with. Deal?"
Her face lights up. "Real ones?"
"Real ones. I promise."
"Thank you Daddy. You the best!" She throws her arms around his neck, and Ryan hugs her back, his eyes meeting mine over her shoulder.
I mouthyou're so wrapped, and he just grins.
For the next few weeks, Ryan stops at the florist on his way home from work every two days and brings home bags of real flower petals. Rory practices in the backyard, tossing them into the air and giggling as they flutter to the ground. She takes her job very seriously, walking in slow, deliberate steps and making sure each handful is thrown with just the right amount of flair.
I watch from the kitchen window, laughing at how seriously Ryan takes it too. He walks beside her, offering tips and encouragement, and I can see how much he loves this. How much he lovesher. It's one of those moments that makes my chest ache in the best way. Because this—this life we've built together—is everything.
There is no alternate timeline where my life could have been better than this. Ryan is wrapped around our daughter’s finger,and he doesn't even try to hide it. He'll do anything to make her happy, to see her smile, to make sure she feels loved and safe and heard. And watching him be her father is one of the greatest joys of my life.
Which is good, because I’m pregnant again.
After we put Rory to bed—after the third request for water, the second round of tucking in her stuffed animals, and the final insistence that we check under the bed for monsters—Ryan and I finally collapse onto our bed.
"She's asleep," Ryan says, his voice full of relief.
"For now," I say, laughing.
He rolls onto his side and pulls me close, his hand sliding up my back. "You know what I was thinking?"
"What?"
"That we're really good at this."
