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“What is this?” you demanded, calling for your three children. Within seconds, your eldest son stuck his head into the recreational room, gulped once, and quickly retreated.
“Stop right there! In here. All three of you,” you demanded with your arms crossed over your chest.
One by one, your three children walked in. Your eldest not-so-subtlety whispered to his two younger twin siblings, “Did you two do this?”
“We just didn’t want Mommy to get stuck again!” the girl cried out, and you startled, cheeks turning completely red immediately by your youngest’s anguished words.
“Is that… why there are plushies surrounding the beanbag chair?” you asked hesitantly, your cheeks feeling even warmer now. “Wait, how do you two know about the beanbag chair incident?”
“Incidents,” the eight-year-old twin boy corrected you, much to your horror. As if for clear emphasis, he added succinctly, “Plural.”
“Big brother told us,” the boy’s twin sister clarified.
“Dad told me,” your eldest chimed in afterwards to avert the blame directed at him.
“Zayne!!!” you called for your husband, and despite the clear distress in your voice, you could hear his footsteps making their leisure way down the hallways, sounding more like he was taking a casual stroll through the park than checking in on his upset wife. Suddenly, you noticed his large shadow pausing outside in the hallway, and it was a good half a minute before he finally peeked into the room, already turning away to stifle his immediate amused chuckles.
“Zayne, don’t you dare laugh at me!”
“I’m not,” he said, pretending to sound offended by the accusation hurled at him so suddenly. He walked briskly into the room, his arms crossed over his chest as he tilted his head, seemingly delighted by the sight before him. “I am just so happy to see my whole family gathered together in the same room.”
He walked over and patted each twin on their head when they rushed over to each hug his leg. He tousled his eldest son’s hair despite the twelve-year-old pretending to be upset. “My lovely children,” he acknowledged fondly with clear pride in his voice.
He walked casually over to your side, smiling calmly at the angry pout you directed at him with your arms still sternly crossed over your chest. He leaned down and kissed your cheek firmly, and for a brief second, you almost wavered under his affectionate gesture before remembering you were still upset at him. “My beautiful pregnant wife,” he said finally, adding unabashedly, “Looking so cute today.”
He straightened his posture and looked over to the ever so familiar pink beanbag chair, noticing some new company in his presence. “Ah, I see Happy Snowman and his friends have joined the group,” Zayne noted playfully, “And I see Mr. Seal is here as well, and also—”
“Did you tell the children to surround the beanbag chair with the plushies?!” you finally demanded, interrupting his vexing observation.
“I did not,” Zayne said plainly, with clear amusement still twinkling in his hazel eyes. “But if this keeps you out of it, I will not object to their strategic problem solving.”
“Problem solving?!”
“Darling, do you remember the last time you sat in this beanbag chair while pregnant?”
“Well…”
“And the time before that?”
“You’re being so unfair, Zaynie…” you sniffled, wiping at your eyes.
“Oh, dear,” he sighed, already gathering you into his arms. You teared up against his shirt, leaving clear visible wet stains on it, but he made no comment on that. Instead, he rubbed your back soothingly, speaking calmly while you sniffled. “We have so many chairs and other seating areas in this house.”
“But they’re not as comfortable…”
“Do you feel comfortable getting up from the beanbag chair? At seven months pregnant, no less?”
“…That’s not fair…” you repeated and pounded at his chest with one small fist.
“Come here…” he said gently, leading you to the large sofa in the room. He helped you settle down in the center seat before taking his place next to you on your left. Instinctively, you leaned into his embrace, feeling his hand soothingly rubbing you up and down as he comforted you.
“Mommy?” your daughter followed over, carrying a tray of assorted snacks. You hadn’t realized the children had snuck out while you were arguing with your husband. The little girl appeared guilty as she explained quietly, “We’ve brought you snacks to say sorry…”
“Oh…” you could only say, feeling fresh tears brimming in your eyes, touched by your children’s thoughtfulness. “I… I wasn’t actually angry… Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Mom, you should choose something to watch on TV,” your eldest piped up, handing you the remote control. “Your feet must hurt too, right?”
“Yeah, we heard you telling Daddy your feet hurt a lot now,” the twin boy chimed in, helping you elevate your legs on a plush ottoman stool. Immediately, he and his older brother each helped massage your sore feet.
Your daughter curled up next to you on your opposite side, picking your favorite chocolate from the tray to give you. You smiled appreciatively, glancing at each of your child with motherly warmth.
“Do you feel comfortable now, Mommy?” your daughter asked, concerned. She giggled when you stroked her cheek and kissed the tip of her nose.
“I feel very comfortable,” you said, “Thank you.”
Zayne smiled fondly at the sight. He directed your attention back to him, asking teasingly, “Am I still in trouble then?”
Before you answered, you noticed your children watching with curiosity, eagerly waiting for your response. You pretended to glower at your husband again, noticing your children’s quick nervous glances at one another. The charade barely lasted a minute before a smile broke out on your face, and you laughed into your husband’s shoulder, shaking your head. “No,” you said, hearing your children laughing in relief. You placed a hand over the large bump you carried, feeling the faint movements of your fourth child stirring. “How can I stay angry at you? At any of you?”
Zayne motioned with his head, and his two sons quickly hopped onto the couch, eagerly swiping at the snacks on the tray before settling comfortably to watch a movie together.
You picked a fantasy film about a young maiden living and studying under the care of her immortal master on a mountain, and despite her troublemaker tendencies, she was adored by him very much, a feeling she also reciprocated.
As your children watched the film with rapt attention, you settled more comfortably against Zayne, looking up to notice that he had not been watching the film at all. His attention had been on you the whole time.
The sounds from the movie buried your words, leaving only your husband to hear them.
“This will be my last pregnancy,” you whispered to him. Your eyes closed when he leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead. You brimmed with happiness at his gentle care. “I feel so silly for getting so emotional earlier….”
“It’s just the hormones,” he reminded you, pretending to act hurt when you playfully shoved his shoulder.
“You’re so good at taking care of me—of us,” you said, guiding his hand to your belly. Instinctively, Zayne caressed your bump tenderly before looking up to meet your gaze. You emphasized clearly, “All of us.”
“Only because you all take good care of me, too,” Zayne said.
It was such a humble—and typical Zayne—response, you couldn’t help but laughed, pausing when you felt a particularly strong kick in your womb. You patted your stomach, musing happily to your unborn son, “You picked a good family to be born into, my darling.”
You glanced over to your side, seeing your daughter resting with her head on her eldest brother’s lap, and the boy absently patting her shoulder, his attention still completely focused on the film. The twin boy was also watching the film with such childlike wonder as he continuously munched on popcorn and candy with seemingly no sense of awareness of his own actions.
“A very good family,” you repeated in a soft murmur, feeling suddenly fatigued by your pregnancy. Guided by Zayne’s soft, soothing voice, you drifted to sleep, hearing only the film’s hero telling the heroine:
Our promise is that we’ll always be together—starting today. And once I make a promise to you, I won’t break it.