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Our daughter does not.

Maisie sits on the kitchen counter in purple pajamas with a mixing bowl between her legs and a spoon covered in chocolate frosting halfway to her mouth.

Dane stands beside her.

Our six-week-old daughter is strapped to his bare chest.

There’s a pink bow clipped into his beard.

I fold my arms. “What is happening?”

Maisie licks the spoon. “Snack.”

“I can see that.”

“Daddy said I could.”

I look at my husband.

“Did Daddy?”

Dane looks at our daughter. “Snitch.”

She giggles.

“You gave a two-year-old a bowl of frosting for breakfast?”

“Wasn’t breakfast.”

I look at the clock. “It’s eight twenty in the morning.”

“She had eggs.”

“When?”

“Seven.”

“So this is second breakfast?”

“Dessert.”

I stare at him. Dane stares back.

Five years ago, people crossed the street when they saw this man coming.

Now he’s standing in our kitchen wearing gray sweatpants, no shirt, a newborn strapped against his tattooed chest, and a glittery pink bow in his beard.

I point at it. “What’s that?”

His expression darkens. “Don’t.”

I start laughing.

Maisie points proudly. “I make Daddy pretty.”

“You certainly did.”

“She said I can’t take it out.”