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It begins on a Saturday morning so offensively sunny that even the air feels like it’s smiling.
Khaotung is the first to wake up, which is rare, rarer than clean white shirts in First’s side of the closet, rarer than a day when their daughter doesn’t try to convince them she deserves a second dessert because she’s “been good all week.” It’s the kind of rare that makes him squint suspiciously at the clock on his phone, which reads 7:43 AM, and then at the soft, snoring mound beside him. First is still curled into the shape of a parent who has slept through one too many animated movies, his face squashed into the pillow, hair sticking up like he’s just come out of a washing machine and lost the fight.
Down the hallway, there’s a distinct, unmistakable sound. A high-pitched giggle. The rustling of what might be plastic bags. The unmistakable sound of a cat knocking something over for fun, followed by an exasperated little gasp.
“Montow!” their daughter hisses, scandalized, “You’re not supposed to eat the glitter glue!”
Khaotung throws the blanket off like a man possessed and runs.
He doesn’t expect the sight that greets him when he bursts into the playroom. There, in the middle of a soft pastel battlefield of crayons, stickers, and one very guilty-looking cat, stands their five-year-old, dressed in full Stitch onesie glory, complete with floppy ears, claws, and a zipper that she has valiantly fought halfway up her torso. She’s holding a tiny pink backpack in one hand and what appears to be a folded drawing in the other, already giving him her best puppy eyes.
“Papa,” she says, sweet as syrup and just as sticky. “Can we go now?”
Khaotung blinks. “Go where?”
She looks at him like he’s the silly one. “To get Stitch. The real Stitch. The one I saw at the mall with the tongue like—” She dramatically sticks her own tongue out and flails her arms. “ BLEHHH. That one.”
He smiles, wide and helpless, and so in love it should be criminal. “You mean the plushie we said you could pick one of? From the store?”
She nods solemnly. “Today is the day.”
Montow meows loudly from the side, as if seconding her decision. Or protesting his glitter glue snack being confiscated.
“Okay, let’s get your shoes,” Khaotung says, already resigned, already kneeling to help her unzip the onesie just enough to fit her arms through. “But first, we need to wake up daddy.”
She groans dramatically. “He’s gonna say five more minutes and then he’ll close his eyes and then snore snore snore. ”
He lifts her up, all squirmy limbs and early-morning energy. “Then we’ll jump on him together.”
Which is how First wakes up to the full body weight of his daughter landing squarely on his chest and yelling “STITCHHHHHH!” like a war cry.
He groans, the wind knocked out of him. “She gets this chaos from you.”
Khaotung shrugs. “She gets her stubbornness from you.”
“Her dramatic entrances?”
“Definitely you.”
“Her Stitch obsession?”
Their daughter interrupts. “ Both of you. Because you watched it with me and you cried .”
First turns to glare at Khaotung. “You cried?”
“It was emotional!”
“You cried harder than her.”
“She was focused on the plot!”
“You said, and I quote—‘He’s just a little guy!’”
“ He is just a little guy! ”
By the time they’re dressed, caffeinated (adults only), and have wrangled a very fluffy Montow away from a chewed-up slipper, it’s almost 9:30 AM. Their daughter is vibrating in her booster seat, chattering nonstop about the exact Stitch plushie she saw on display last week. She describes it with the intensity of someone pitching a million-baht business idea: “His ears go flop flop , and his eyes are shiny like glass, and he’s this big —” she spreads her arms out dramatically, “—and he has a real tongue!”
“Real tongue?” First asks, amused, adjusting the rearview mirror to glance at her.
She nods. “It sticks out like this—BLEHHHHH.”
Khaotung joins her in the backseat impression, complete with hand gestures. First pretends not to smile, but the crinkle in his eyes betrays him.
The toy store is in one of those massive shopping centers where every square inch is either blasting air conditioning or aggressively themed music. Today, it’s “Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride” on loop, and their daughter gasps the second she hears it, flinging her hands up like she’s summoning magic. “ It’s a sign! ”
Khaotung whispers to First, “We might be raising a cult leader.”
First murmurs back, “We already are.”
Inside the store, it’s sensory overload. Bright colors, jingles, life-sized cartoon mascots, and rows upon rows of plush toys, action figures, dolls, puzzles, and chaos. But their daughter is a girl on a mission. She weaves through the aisles like a detective on a case, eyes scanning every shelf with precision. She spots a small Stitch section tucked beside the Disney merch and lets out a gasp so dramatic that even a sales clerk turns to look.
“There he is!” she squeals, running forward.
And there he is. A Stitch plush easily the size of a throw pillow, tongue out, ears flopped forward, eyes glinting under the store lights. Khaotung makes the same sound she did. “He’s perfect.”
“She already has four at home,” First whispers.
“Not this one.”
“She won’t have space in bed—”
“She’ll make space.”
“She’ll forget him in a week—”
“He’s got a tongue, love. A tongue.”
First pinches the bridge of his nose like a man fighting a losing battle. And he is. Because not only is their daughter now hugging the plushie like it’s her long-lost twin, Khaotung is taking a selfie with it. First watches both his people melt over an overpriced, mass-produced alien, and feels something in his chest give way.
“I’m surrounded by traitors.”
Khaotung grins at him, eyes soft. “You love it.”
He does.
They spend another hour browsing, letting their daughter show them every toy she almost picked instead. She holds up a pink dolphin that makes sound, a sparkly unicorn that lights up, a Barbie with a detachable mermaid tail. First dutifully reacts to each one with varying degrees of horror and awe, while Khaotung takes mental notes in case she mentions them again next week.
Montow gets a small catnip mouse. Their daughter insists he deserves it for being brave during the glitter glue incident. First mutters something about rewarding criminal behavior, but still pays for it. Khaotung sneaks in a Stitch mug for himself. First sneaks in a Stitch keychain for Khaotung.
The car ride home is quieter. Their daughter clutches the new plushie to her chest, eyes drooping in the backseat. Khaotung is leaning his head against the window, smiling down at his phone, probably texting a photo to their group chat. First drives with one hand and rests the other on Khaotung’s thigh, squeezing gently when the other man looks up.
“We’re kind of sickening,” Khaotung murmurs.
“Absolutely,” First agrees.
By the time they pull into the driveway, their daughter is asleep, plushie half-covering her face. First carries her inside, careful not to wake her. Khaotung unlocks the door, tosses their bags down, and scoops Montow into his arms like he’s the third child in their chaotic family sitcom.
Later, after she’s tucked into bed with not one, not two, but five Stitch plushies around her, Khaotung flops onto the couch with a groan.
“She’s going to ask for the full costume next,” he says.
“She’s going to ask for a Stitch-themed birthday party,” First replies.
“She’s going to ask if we can legally adopt Stitch.”
They stare at each other for a beat. Then burst out laughing.
Khaotung leans into First’s shoulder, warm and content. “You know,” he says softly, “sometimes I look at us, like actually look, and I can’t believe this is real. That we’re here. That she’s ours. That this is our life.”
First kisses his hair, gently. “You better believe it. You even got your tongue-Stitch.”
“I got more than that,” Khaotung says, eyes fluttering shut.
Outside the window, the world keeps moving. But inside, the house is quiet, full of soft breathing and the occasional cat paw swipe. Full of pastel toys and dried marker stains on the table. Full of love in every messy, silly, unbearably sweet form.
And Stitch. So, so much Stitch.
The next morning, it starts again—not with the sun, not with birdsong, but with the unmistakable sound of something being dragged across the floor.
Khaotung cracks one eye open.
First’s voice is muffled against the pillow. “Is that… furniture?”
“It better not be the TV stand again.”
They shuffle out of bed like two men at the end of a battle, not the beginning of a Sunday. The moment their feet hit the floor, their daughter bursts through the door, dragging behind her an entire toy wagon filled with all five Stitch plushies stacked like a pyramid, her pink backpack bouncing with every step. She’s already dressed in a different Stitch shirt, of course, and there’s a plastic tiara perched crookedly on her head.
“I made a plan!” she announces.
First stares. “You—what?”
“A plan. For today. A Stitch day.”
Khaotung squats down in front of her, expression far too serious for someone being briefed by a five-year-old in a cartoon shirt. “Elaborate.”
She unzips the backpack and pulls out a page torn from a sketchpad, complete with crayon diagrams and boxes labeled in phonetic Thai and suspicious amounts of glitter. There are stick figures, one with pink hair, one with glasses, and a lot of blue ovals presumably meant to represent Stitch in different emotional states.
She taps the top of the page. “First, we eat pancakes shaped like Stitch.”
“Do we… know how to make those?” First asks, glancing sideways.
Khaotung’s already pulling out his phone. “I will become the kind of dad who knows.”
“Then,” she continues, “we build Stitch’s house. Out of pillows. And he has a spaceship. So we need chairs. And string. And a helmet.”
“And then?”
She grins. “Then we watch Stitch. All the movies.”
Khaotung chokes slightly. “Sweetheart, there are like five.”
“I know. We don’t have to pee. We’ll take breaks only if Montow needs food.”
“Montow always needs food.”
She nods wisely. “Then we’ll be good parents and feed him twice.”
First leans against the wall, arms crossed. “And what’s our role in all this?”
She pauses. “You’re Stitch’s uncles.”
“I thought you said Stitch is your son.”
“Exactly.”
Khaotung beams. “So we’re granddads?”
“ Cool granddads.”
“Damn right.”
By the time they’ve managed to produce lopsided Stitch-shaped pancakes, thanks to a silicone mold Khaotung miraculously found at the back of their kitchen drawer and a fair amount of trial and error, they’re sticky with syrup, covered in flour, and have already burnt one pancake that looked like a tragic attempt at Mickey Mouse. Their daughter declared it “Haunted Stitch” and made it an honorary member of the plushie family.
They build the pillow spaceship in the living room. Montow climbs aboard mid-construction and refuses to get off, claiming the captain’s chair with all the dignity of a cat that has never known rejection. Their daughter spends twenty minutes adding “alien crystals” (read: Khaotung’s unused blue highlighters) to the cockpit before strapping on her bicycle helmet and announcing liftoff.
First watches from the couch, sipping his coffee, eyes soft and utterly betrayed by the fond curve of his lips. Khaotung climbs in beside their daughter, pretending to push buttons and speaking in garbled alien. She shrieks with laughter, practically vibrating with joy.
They don’t make it through all five Stitch movies, only the first two before she knocks out cold on the couch, surrounded by the plush pile, the faint flicker of blue light still bouncing across her face. Her tiara has slipped down to her nose. Montow is curled up on her feet like a furry bodyguard.
Khaotung reaches over to pause the movie and doesn’t move for a while.
“Do you ever think,” he says eventually, “how lucky we are that she chose us?”
First looks at him. “Every day.”
“It’s like—every day is chaotic, and we don’t sleep much, and I still have marker stains on my neck from last week—”
“Don’t forget the time she glitter-bombed your laptop.”
“I’m trying to forget that. But also—I don’t know. I’d take every bit of it if it means I get to sit right here, right now. With you. With her.”
First’s fingers thread into his, warm and grounding.
“She’s our little universe,” he murmurs.
“And we orbit around her like dumb, lovesick moons,” Khaotung adds.
First squeezes his hand. “Speak for yourself, babe.”
“You literally bought her that Stitch lunchbox even though she already had two.”
“You bought her Stitch pajamas in three sizes. ”
“She’s gonna grow!”
“Baby, you bought yourself Stitch pajamas.”
Khaotung gasps. “And I wear them proudly.”
They bicker until the sky turns violet and the house smells like jasmine and comfort. Dinner is takeout eaten on the floor, their daughter groggy and blinking, murmuring about aliens and Ohana and how “Stitch needs to go to school with me tomorrow or he’ll be lonely.”
First brushes her hair back. “We’ll write him a permission slip.”
“You guys are the best,” she says, voice small and content, nestled into his lap. “Even if you’re annoying sometimes.”
“Gee thanks,” Khaotung deadpans.
When they finally carry her to bed, carefully tucking in the Stitch of the Day beside her, the night settles around them like a hug. Montow curls into his usual spot on their bed. Khaotung falls face-first into the pillow with a groan. First’s voice comes from the bathroom.
“You know what next weekend is, right?”
“Don’t say it.”
“She’s going to ask us to be Stitch and Lilo for family day.”
There’s a long pause.
“…dibs on Stitch,” Khaotung whispers into the blanket.
The night is full of soft sounds, the distant hum of the AC, Montow’s occasional collar jingle, the muffled whir of laundry tumbling somewhere in the background. First emerges from the bathroom in a worn tank top and boxers, hair damp from a shower, toweling it dry. He pauses by the bedroom door, watching Khaotung lying sprawled across the bed like he’s been dramatically thrown there by the weight of his own affection.
“Do I want to know how many pictures you took today?” First asks.
Khaotung rolls over onto his back. “Seventy-eight.”
“You’re lying.”
“I filtered them down to thirty-four.”
“And then?”
“I made a collage.”
“Of course you did.”
“Three versions.”
First doesn’t even fight it. He just walks over and climbs onto the bed, tossing the towel to the side. The mattress dips under his weight, and when he stretches out, Khaotung instinctively shifts closer, their legs tangling like it’s second nature, which, by now, it is.
They lie there in silence for a while, the kind that’s never heavy, never awkward. Just… full. Of things that don’t need to be said out loud.
Khaotung reaches up and touches First’s chin lightly, then trails his finger along the curve of his jaw. “Do you think we’re doing okay?”
“With?”
“With her. With this. With being her parents.”
First turns his head to look at him fully, his voice soft. “Babe, she woke us up dressed like a cartoon alien, made a glitter war plan, and declared a Stitch religion.”
Khaotung groans. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m saying—she’s happy. She’s confident. She’s weird in the best way. And she knows she’s loved. What more could you want?”
“She could sleep past 8 AM.”
“She’s five.”
“I just want one morning where I don’t get attacked by a plushie with a tongue.”
First chuckles, his hand reaching for Khaotung’s. Their fingers fit together, worn in and familiar, with a rhythm they never had to force. “You know,” he says, “before we had her, I thought I knew what love looked like.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it was late-night ramen and stolen kisses. I thought it was texting until three in the morning, even though we were both exhausted.”
Khaotung smiles. “And now?”
“Now it’s sticker-covered phone cases. Matching socks. Tiny shoes lined up by the door. You, asleep on the couch with glitter on your face.”
“You said you liked me sparkly.”
“I like you stupidly , baby.”
There’s a beat, then—
“I like you stupidly too.”
First leans in and kisses him, slow and deep and sweet, the kind of kiss that makes time soften around the edges. When they pull away, Khaotung’s cheeks are pink and his eyes are warm.
“I think we’re doing great,” First whispers.
Khaotung tucks his head into First’s chest. “Even if she demands we wear Stitch onesies next weekend?”
“We’ll be matching.”
“Even if she wants a space-themed wedding when she’s older?”
“We’ll walk her down the aisle in jetpacks.”
“Even if she grows up and stops needing us the way she does now?”
First’s voice catches, just for a second. “She’ll always need us. Just in different ways.”
There’s quiet again. But this one is soft, not sad.
Outside the door, the little hum of their daughter’s Stitch lullaby nightlight plays its loop. Montow hops up onto the bed and wedges himself between their legs with a judgmental grunt, already asleep before either of them can shoo him off.
Khaotung sighs. “Hey, love?”
“Mmh?”
“I’d wear the Stitch onesie.”
First smiles into his hair. “I know.”
They fall asleep like that, limbs tangled, hearts full, the air smelling faintly of blueberry syrup and fabric softener. Somewhere down the hallway, their little girl dreams of aliens and pillow forts and blue creatures who never leave anyone behind.
And in a house too messy to be on a magazine cover, too loud to be calm, too full to ever be still, everything is exactly, exquisitely, chaotically right.
Ohana means family.
And family means no one gets left behind.
Not even Montow.