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I’ll do anything in my power to protect them so they will never have to lose theirs so young.
What they say is right, after all. We don’t really understand our parents until we become parents ourselves because, knowing my dad…my pain must have hurt him way worse than it ever did me.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that because it sounded like you were arguing, and we can’t have that. Not when your mom spent so much time planning this event.” They tilt their heads back and blink at me as we have a long stare-off, so they know I know their bullshit doesn’t fly with me. Loving them doesn’t mean a lack of discipline. “Why are you all wearing suits anyway?” While the perfectly tailored three-piece suits are identical, the colors are different since each one of them has a favorite one.
Dark blue for Tristan.
Red for Jacob.
Gray for Matías.
We are at this stage where they refuse to wear any other colors unless it’s jeans. Welcome to parenting, basically.
A collective sigh fills the air at this, and Jacob grumbles, “We lost a bet.” He laces his fingers in his hair and pulls at it. “Whoever loses it has to wear a suit, even if we go swimming in the lake.” He sighs again. “It’s very uncomfortable, Dad.” They all nod. “But a bet is a bet.”
“What bet?”
Tristan answers for me. “Javier and Miguel had this interesting idea.” I tense because hearing them mention their cousins’ names never means “interesting idea.” Usually, it means an insane fucking idea that leaves mayhem behind. “There is no need for details, Dad. But if our teacher calls, you just know we had the best intentions.”
“They just didn’t work out as good as we thought they would,” Matías finishes lamely, and they all hang their heads. I don’t see an ounce of remorse on their faces. Just them being sad they lost the bet. “So that’s why we’re wearing suits.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, contemplating asking them about their recent fuckup that will cost me a fortune but then decide not to. I’ll find out soon enough.
One of the things about my kids?
They always have the best intentions, so I guess I’ll consider that a parenting win, although I think psychologists would just call me delusional.
Speaking of my children.
“Where is your sister?”
The minute the question slips past my lips, Isabella rushes outside on the terrace, holding two hangers with dresses on them. “Which one is better?” Her blonde hair is in a braid and she wears a jumpsuit, her bare toes curling into the marble as we all study her choices. “You need to tell me right now. I’m running out of time. They’ll be here soon!” Apprehension fills her eyes. “It’s very important, Dad!”
If I have learned one thing over the years from being married and having a daughter…it’s that there can only be one answer to that. “They both look great.”
“Please focus, Dad!” She shifts her attention to the triplets, who step back from me and cock their heads to the side, scanning her from head to toe. “Well? Which one?”
My daughter was always a blessing to our family, I still can’t believe we managed to have a girl, and she was so deeply loved by us and everyone else that we were afraid of how she’d react to having not one but three more siblings at once.
However, we shouldn’t have worried because she loved them instantly, and the triplets worship the ground she walks on, always running errands for her and helping her out whenever she needs something. In fact, they’d do anything for her, and in turn, she never busts their asses. She’s worse than a spy when she withholds information.
We created traditions like me taking her once a month to father-daughter outings where I catch up on all her things, and that allows our bond to grow. She loves to design, her fingers are constantly smeared in colors, and she loves to watch us work, dreaming about becoming a head designer for the Price empire. She’s a social butterfly and thrives in all the attention while being surrounded by countless friends, but we have to shield her from the media a lot. They keep talking about her being a pretty kid who’ll break hearts in the future, and it just pisses me the fuck off.
“The A-line one is nice, and I like the flower patterns on it more,” Tristan finally says, and I don’t even question how he knows what type of dresses they are. “But the tent dress is made of a better material.”
“You’ll feel warmer in the A-line one. It might get chilly in the evening.” Matías, always the pragmatic one. “Or better yet, just stay in your jumpsuit.”
“Go with the tent dress. The purple color on it is more vivid and catches attention,” Jacob says, and her eyes light up as annoyance zaps through me.
Because it finally registers in my mind that both dresses are purple.
Only one person in our family loves this color—Braiden. Isabella has been hopelessly crushing on my godson for years, it seems.
It’s sad to watch, considering he’s fifteen now and ignores her or does his own thing with music. He’s kind and gentle but never encourages her moon eyes.
I appreciate the effort and clear boundaries he set, even though my girl often doodles her name alongside his. Grandpa Atlas gave her a full lecture when he saw it.
“You were born a Price, and you will die a Price.” He frowns at her. “If you change your name for any man, I’m writing you out of my will.”
