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“Your mother just asked me if I think you’re ready to be a father.” He takes a long sip. “I’ve been here twenty minutes.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you’ve been doing 2 a.m. feedings for a baby that isn’t yours for two months, so yeah, probably.” He pauses. “Then she asked if I thought Ryleigh’s hips were good for childbearing.”

I close my eyes. “She did not.”

“Direct quote. She gestured and everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Tracey overheard and almost spit out her wine. Best moment of my night.” He clinks his beer against mine. “Welcome to the engaged club, by the way. It only gets weirder from here.”

Dinner is chaos. The good kind—plates being passed, Tracey’s kids flinging dinner rolls at each other, everyone talking over each other and Mom pushing more food than we can possibly eat. Ella is in a high chair between Ryleigh and my mom, gumming a teething ring and looking deeply skeptical of the mashed potatoes Valerie keeps trying to interest her in.

We’re about halfway through the roast when Tracey sets down her fork and says, “Okay. I’ve been patient. We need to talk about the wedding.”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” I say.

“Spring,” my mother says from the head of the table, like it’s already been decided. “April. The gardens will be blooming.”

“We haven’t even—”

“Not June. Your father sweated through his suit. I have the photos. It was embarrassing.”

“What about fall?” Ana says. “October is beautiful.”

“October is football season,” I point out.

“So?”

“So I’ll be playing football.”

“Take a weekend off.”

“That’s not how professional sports work, Ana.”

Ryleigh is watching all of this with the expression she gets when she’s being absorbed into my family against her will and quietly loving it. She catches my eye across the table and her lips twitch.

“What about a destination?” Valerie asks. “Italy. Or Greece. Or Mexico.”

“No destination,” my mother says firmly. “I’m not flying across the ocean to see my son get married. He can get married here, where I can walk.”

“You can walk in Mexico, Ma.”

“I walk here.”

Ryleigh clears her throat. Everyone turns to her.

“I don’t have a strong opinion on the date,” she says carefully. “But I do have one request.”

“What is it?” my mother asks.

“I want it to be small. Just family and close friends. No stadium, no cameras, no jumbotron.” She glances at me. “The proposal was big and public and perfect. The wedding should be ours.”

The table is quiet for a second. Then my mother nods—slow, decisive.

“Smart girl.”