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You couldn’t let your husband find out.
Absolute could not!
“Mommy?”
“Yes, my darling?” You smiled at your three-year-old son, adoring how the little boy was a near perfect clone of his father. The same curious expression, and so bright and handsome, too. You felt like you lucked out having such a sweet little boy as your child.
“Are you stuck?”
Your smile did not waver once, and you asked cheerfully, “Why would you ask that, darling?”
The boy looked at you with a dull frown on his young face, his expression hardening to look even more like his father. You waited, unsuspecting, but that brief sense of serenity vanished the moment the boy turned around and yelled at the top of his lungs for his father:
“Daddy! Mommy is stuck again! Daddy!”
You swallowed nervously, hearing steady footsteps walking leisurely down the hallways. In minutes, your husband showed up at the recreational room with his arms crossed over his chest and a look that was a mixture of exasperation, disappointment, and resignation on his face.
The little boy toddled over to his father, tugging on his pants as he pointed at you while exclaiming nonchalantly, “Mommy is stuck in the beanbag chair again.”
You sighed, sulking.
Betrayed by your own offspring. This was so unfair. You did not carry that boy past his due date just for him to betray you like this three years later.
Zayne smiled calmly and patted the top of his son’s head. “I can see that,” he responded, “Thank you for letting Daddy know.”
The boy nodded proudly.
As Zayne leisurely walked over to you, your son followed after his father like his shadow. Suddenly you found yourself peering up, surrounded by your husband and his mini clone.
“I thought I had told you the beanbag chair was off-limits for nine months,” Zayne asked patiently with the faintest of smile tugging at his lips. You could hear the clear amusement in his tone.
“I’m only four and a half months pregnant,” you reminded him.
“With twins,” he added, looking pointedly at your bump which was slightly larger than when you were pregnant with your first child during your second trimester.
You placed at hand over your belly and rubbed it slowly, sighing, “But, Zayne, the beanbag chair is so comfortable!”
You giggled when your toddler climbed into the beanbag chair, settling against you and your belly. Your heart melted when he kissed your belly and greeted his baby siblings. As you snuggled with your son, you gave Zayne your best puppy dog eyes, commenting, “See? Our son agrees.”
“I agree as well,” he quipped, settling on the floor next to the chair. As he peered up at you, your other hand instinctively stroked his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, kissing your palm softly. He rested his hand over yours, sighing softly, “And what would you have done if I wasn’t at home?”
You were quiet, and then you opened your mouth, but quickly, you clamped it shut, hearing your husband’s stern voice:
“Don’t say you will wait in this silly chair until I come home.”
“I mean, it seemed obvious,” you countered thoughtfully, secretly delighting in the way your husband always looked bewildered and exasperated by your shenanigans.
“You—”
“Shh,” you shushed him, your eyes drifting down to the toddler snuggling against you. “He’s asleep…”
Zayne let out a disbelieving breath, marveling at the image of you, pregnant with his children and your other child was asleep against you. He sighed. “Sleeping on his own for once. We should buy a lottery ticket,” he joked, “Our luck is never this good.”
You hummed softly in agreement, your hand stroking your son’s hair to lull him into a deeper sleep. Your other hand caressed your bump, and you glanced at Zayne, surprised to see his expression full of adoration, gazing back at you, unwavering even when he was caught.
“What are you thinking of?” you asked softly.
“I am so lucky,” he responded.
“We are so lucky,” you corrected him.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Do you need to get up? I can put him to bed first—”
“No,” you cut your husband off, smiling, “I am comfortable right here right now.”
He smiled. “Very well,” he responded, adding teasingly, “But I will confiscate this beanbag chair the next time you are pregnant.”
You laughed, astounded by his daring comment. “The next time?”
“What? Don’t you want to have more of my babies?” he teased.
Normally so composed and stern, you delighted in being the only one to unmask your husband’s aloof persona, revealing a warmer side he reserved for his family. He was so playful, matching your mischievousness, but he was also warm, and sweeter than any dessert you both have shared. You wanted to keep building this life you had with him, wanting the home you shared to be full of love and warmth and laughter. There were more moments you wanted to share with him, and you knew, he, too, had the same wishes.
“Maybe we should revisit this discussion after I have the twins,” you remarked, laughing when Zayne rested his head against the beanbag chair, pretending to pout. Hearing your giggles, he glanced at you, smiling, before he leaned up, silencing your laughter and stealing your breath away with a kiss.
“We can,” he agreed, adding boldly, “But I already know the ending of that discussion, my love.”