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“He’s eight months old and he’s already mastered the art of the strategic nap,” she counters. “He sleeps just long enough that you think you have time to do something useful, then wakes up the second you’re committed. It’s diabolical. It’s management-level thinking.”
To prove her point, Milo chooses that moment to yawn, a massive, jaw-cracking display that somehow manages to convey both deep exhaustion and absolute refusal to give in to it, and Liv nods once, her point clearly made.
“Also,” she continues, already pulling Milo from his bouncer and settling him on her knee with ease, “I’m available on Sunday for emotional support/arson backup/the strategic use of my car alarm. The emotional Hunger Games starts at one, right?”
“The what?” I ask, though I know what she means.
“The Quinn family gathering,” she clarifies, already typing with one hand while bouncing Milo with the other.
“I’ve gotten very good at smiling,” I tell her. “It’s basically a professional skill at this point. I should survive.”
“Message if she says anything passive-aggressive,” Liv says, not looking up from her screen. “I’ll fake a medical emergency. Probably a seizure. Those are very dramatic. Lots of arm movements.”
The café settles into its afternoon rhythm, and I’m so absorbed in it that I don’t notice Harper’s arrival until Leo’s voice cuts through the general noise.
“MUM,” he announces with the volume of a six-year-old who has never once questioned whether anyone wants to hear what he has to say, “I NEED COCOA. AND A BLANKET FORT.”
Harper appears behind him, laptop bag slung across her body, keys still in hand, her expression caught between amusement and exhaustion. “What he means,” she says, already moving toward the counter, “is that he would like a small hot chocolate and permission to build something structurally questionable in your children’s corner. And I would like whatever contains the most caffeine and is least likely to require actual chewing.”
“Coming right up,” I tell her, already reaching for a mug. “Leo, Luca’s in charge of blanket forts today. He’s already built three this morning. He is a very experienced architect.”
This is apparently the right thing to say, because Leo immediately abandons his position by the counter and launches a full-scale campaign to recruit Luca, who, despite being in the middle of making what appears to be an extremely complicated drink, immediately kneels to Leo’s height with focus.
“The blanket fort,” Luca says seriously, “isn’t just a blanket fort. It’s a statement about our right to create temporary architecture without being constrained by conventional building codes.”
Leo nods with equal seriousness. “And also dinosaurs live there,” he adds. “Important dinosaurs who need special doors.”
“Obviously,” Luca agrees. “That’s just basic dinosaur housing.”
They disappear into the children’s corner together, Leo talking rapidly, Luca nodding with genuine interest, and Harper settles at the table nearest the counter, her laptop already open, her attention split between her manuscript and watching Leo with the vigilance of someone who knows what “structurally questionable“ actually means.
I hand her the coffee, a flat white with the right amount of foam, and our eyes meet across the counter. For a second I think she sees it: the quality of hollow behind my eyes, how the last three months have taken a toll on me.
“You know,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to be together all the time.”
Simple words, almost permission to break down, to throw things or sit in a corner and rock. It reminds me how much I love this woman.
“Thanks,” I say with a slight quiver to the word.
She nods once, accepting this without pushing for more, and turns back to her manuscript.
The day before the Quinn family gathering, Daniel suggests we do something nice together. “Just us and the twins,” he says. “Maybe that park by the water? The one with the good baby swings?” I agree without hesitation because refusing would require an explanation. So, I nod and say, “that sounds nice.”
The park appears just as it always does, small, quiet, with a view of the water that turns the grey-bright morning into something almost pretty. It’s not technically warm but it’s the first properly spring-like Saturday we’ve had so far this year, and the park is full of families with small children that have been released from winter captivity.
Daniel pushes the pram along the path, one hand resting casually on the handlebar while he points out landmarks to the twins with the other. “That’s a seagull,” he tells them seriously. “They’re like pigeons but with better PR. And over there is what grown-ups call ‘scenic’ but is actually just water that looks cold enough to kill you.”
I walk beside him, my attention split between Milo’s increasingly dramatic vocal experiments and Maisie’s suspicious examination of the passing scenery. Every few minutes, Daniel’s hand brushes mine, not quite holding, not quite separate, and each time, I carefully adjust my position to maintain distance.
We reach the playground, a small, brightly coloured structure surrounded by wood chips and Daniel immediately heads for the baby swings.
“Who wants to go first?” he asks, already unbuckling Maisie from the pram. “Ladies? Gentlemen? Tiny humans who haven’t decided if gravity is friend or foe?”
Maisie, never one to turn down an adventure, makes a small sound of agreement and reaches for Daniel with both hands. He lifts her with one hand supporting her back, the other cradling her head, and carries her to the swings.
“You ready?” he asks, already settling her into the small plastic seat. “Three, two, one…“
He pushes gently, and Maisie’s face transforms, her eyes widening, her mouth opening in a perfect O of surprise before dissolving into a whole-faced laugh that makes my chest ache. Such pure unfiltered delight at the miracle of swinging through air.
