Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
And when we told them we were expecting, I’d braced for the worst, for them to instantly sour and lecture me about responsibility.
Instead, my father had burst into tears like the big softy he was, and my mother had gushed, both of them unable to contain their delight.
We’d ended the call with them making us promise to send them date options for when they could come visit, and no sooner had we hung up than my mom was asking me for Livia’s number. She instantly asked how Livia was feeling and if she had any questions about pregnancy or birth.
My mom didn’t even know about Livia’s mom, but it was like she could tell, like she saw it in her eyes or something.
And it meant more to Livia than she could ever tell me. I knew it every time I saw her smiling when she and my mom were on another phone call talking about breastfeeding or wake windows.
I’m going to be a dad.
After that, Livia and I had slid into this new routine without ever saying we were doing it. She still lived at her condo, I still lived at my little house on the water, but most nights we ended up together. Sometimes I’d wake up tangled in her sheets, sunlight spilling through her skyscraper windows while she muttered about missing coffee as she buttoned up her white coat. Other mornings, it was her half-asleep groan when my alarm went off before practice, followed by her burrowing into my pillow the second I left for the rink.
The worst days were when I was on the road for the team. It wasn’t because of the grind of travel, but because of the empty stretch of bed, the absence of her. I caught myself scrolling through my camera roll in hotel rooms more than I’d like to admit — replaying videos I’d taken of her sketching new jewelry designs, or smiling when I found the photo of her curled up in my hoodie, feet in my lap, chewing absentmindedly on a pencil as she listened to one of those new-parent podcasts she’d gotten us hooked on.
And for the first time in our relationship, sex wasn’t the focus like it had been. She was tired, nauseous, sometimes just not in the mood — and I didn’t give a damn. Because it turned out what I craved even more were all the little things we’d built in between.
It was the way she’d let me take care of her after she worked a long day when our schedules matched up, allowing me the privilege of undressing her and running her a bath before I’d cook whatever she felt like she could stomach. It was how she’d hum while she worked on a set of earrings and then look up with a sleepy grin that made my heart stop. It was the way she looked in the setting sun when we’d take the boards out on the water, how she thought I didn’t notice when her hand would hover over her still-flat stomach. It was the moments like when she’d rest her hand absently on my thigh while we rotted on the couch, both of us trying not to get emotional any time there was a commercial with babies and parents.
I never won that battle, by the way.
Even chores that should have felt overwhelming, like figuring out what crib or stroller or car seat to buy, filled me with an inexplicable joy. I cherished the way it felt to have Livia’s hand in mine as we each scrolled on our phones, showing each other the different review videos or brands of choice.
Moments like that made me feel more alive than any highlight reel goal.
I never thought I’d be the guy who got high off quiet nights at home. I was always the one who wanted to go out to Boomer’s after a game or find the best night life when the team traveled to different cities. But the last month with Livia, knowing what I know now about our future… it had changed me.
I’m going to be a dad.
Livia was crawling out of her skin, though. She enjoyed the nights at home, but I knew she missed getting dolled up and going out. So, I vowed that as soon as she was feeling better, that was exactly what we’d do. I’d take her out and let her show off her baby bump in her skin-tight dresses, and I’d be there to rub her feet when we got back home, too. I’d keep my hands to myself as long as she wanted, and then gladly drop to my knees and bark like a dog as soon as she said the word.
Because I wanted it all with her — the quiet and the loud, the bright and the dim, going out and staying home, dressed up and in sweats, cuddles on the couch and burying myself deep inside her.