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I lay Lucy in the center of our bed and prop pillows around her in every direction. I dress quickly and do the responsible thing by going upstairs, stripping the beds, and starting that load of laundry. On my way downstairs, I cover Layton and the girls with a quilt.
I climb back in bed, tucking my hands under the pillow, spinning my rings as has become my habit as I fall asleep. There are three more now than the day I married Layton. They’re similar, but the designs are a little softer, more feminine. Each is unique… one for each of the girls. Our life, building under our roof and down my ring finger.
I promised him standing on our back porch, all the days regardless of how fun they were, because at least I had him.
Marrying him was an easy and sure thing. He’s the man who tells me through the baby monitor that he loves me and can’t wait to come downstairs and make love to me.
He’s the man who dances with our daughters in the kitchen. Who teaches them football on television and tells them that it will take a very special man to be good enough for them, and it will probably take three decades to find them. He’s the man with a hashtag girl-dad tee in pink at the rehab center who still flirts with me at work and asks about our company’s fraternization policy on the regular.
He’s the man who changes an endless number of diapers, draws me a bath at night, and brings me tea in the mornings. He’s also the man who spoons me after mind-blowing sex and who I want to tell all my secrets to.
And he’s just climbed into bed with Emme and Ellie still on his chest.
And just like we do every night, he says, “Tell me a secret, Pix.”
“Nothing could make me happier than I am right now.” I look him dead in the eyes, fighting a yawn. “Tell me a secret, Layton.”
“Forever will never be long enough to love you.”
And we’ll need forever—and more diapers—because by next Thanksgiving, I’ll have one more ring on my finger and team Ranger will have yet another daughter.
