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She’s made a habit of talking to baby Rose—as if I’m not bodily attached—any chance she gets.
Theresa smirks. “We saw you two days ago, silly.”
She’s fourteen now, blossoming into a beautiful young woman, and I just can’t believe how much the two of them have grown.
I poke her nose, smirking back. “My limit for missing you doesn’t exist.”
Cat calls the girls to follow her outside just as I hear a screeching, “Mom!”
Yennifer leans over the loft above. “Tobias put worms on top of my pillow!”
I turn in time to catch him sneak around the corner of the stairs for the back door.
“Tobias,” I warn, using my well-practiced mom voice.
He gives me a mischievous grin. “What? They’re notrealworms.”
I arch a brow, and he sighs. “Fine, I’ll go apologize.”
But before he heads up, he walks over with a timid smile and gives me a quick hug.
The thing with being pregnant is, everything makes me cry. The sunset, someone going out of their way to hold the door open for me, my kids doing literally nothing but existing. It doesn’t matter. If it’s the tiniest bit heart-warming, there are tears.
Marcus knew adoption and foster care were heavy on my soul, and something I couldn’t wait to do once we were married. So, two years ago, when we discussed our options with the ladies at the shelter, and Yennifer and Tobias came up, there was no question. They were coming home with us.
“Don’t cry, Mom,” he says, but dammit, now I can’t stop.
“I’m fine, I promise,” I assure him, squishing his handsome face between my hands.
Being forced to call my foster parents ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ was one of many things that made me uncomfortable when I was in the system. I’ve never asked that of these two, but even at the ages of nine and eleven, the way they’ve adopted us as much as we have them…tears.
The front door swings open behind me, and Tobias smiles over my shoulder.
“Hey, Uncle Mortie.”
“What’s up, kiddo?”
I step aside for them to hug, fiddling with the horse charm necklace Marcus made for me while swiping at my cheeks.
“You okay?” Mortie asks when Tobias makes his way up to the loft.
I sniffle, then choke on a sob, because seriously, that was so sweet, I feel like my heart is going to explode. “Yeah, totally fine. All I do is cry nowadays.”
My brother-in-law—the man I once thought was incapable of redemption—grabs a tissue off the coffee table and offers it to me with a smile.
Mortie’s been sober for three years, but that haunted look in his eyes never truly left. Marcus, their parents, and I have done everything we can to support him, and I know he’s happier, but I often wonder if his addiction remained a quiet voice in his mind. Always there, always tempting.
He tilts his head as he studies my abdomen, protruding from my flowing dress. “You look beautiful.”
I curl my lips under my teeth, swallowing the ache in my throat until I can’t stand it any longer.
“Oh,” Mortie says, wide-eyed as he scrambles for more tissues. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Thank you,” I hiccup, making his lips twitch when I stuff the used tissues inside my dress pocket. “How was your flight?”
The kids scurry downstairs, worm-mishap forgiven, and with little more than a wave, they meet the rest of our family and friends outside.
“Not nearly as miserable as the one from California to Bosnia.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s been months, but I still have this crick in my neck.”
