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A low chuckle rumbles through his chest and vibrates against my back. “She’s just taking it slow, building on her vocabulary.”

I huff indignantly. “Slow, my ass. She says ‘Milo,’ she says ‘Dada,’ she says ‘cracker,’ she even says ‘no’ like fifty times a day.” I shoot him a mock glare. “You and your no-baby-talk method are turning her into a chatterbox.”

He bends to kiss the side of my neck lightly, softening the bite of his teasing. “Alright, alright. Go for it.”

Scooting forward, I tap the ground to get Rosie’s attention. She turns, eyes alight, dribbling some new gibberish as she wanders closer.

“Rosie,” I say gently, tapping my chest. “Can you say ‘Lena’? Leee-nah.” I draw it out.

Rosie blinks. “Milo?”

I groan, ignoring Wes’s muffled laughter behindme. “No, not the dog. Me. Lena.”

She grins wider, pointing an excited finger. “Dada!”

I throw my hands up, exasperated. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Wes is shaking with silent laughter, so I glower at him over my shoulder. “You’re no help.”

He’s too busy stifling his amusement to respond.

Suddenly, Rosie stops mid-spin, pointing a triumphant finger at me. Her face lights up with a new word: “Mama?” she says, uncertain like she’s testing it out. “Mama.” She repeats it, a bit firmer now.

My entire body seizes while Wes’s arms go rigid around me.

Rosie says it again, question turning into certainty, “Mama!” She’s confident, like she’s finally solved an impossible puzzle.

Panicking, I scramble to my knees, stammering at Wes in a rush. “It’s nothing! I swear, kids do that, right? She’ll grow out of it. It’s not—”

He cuts me off with a gentle tug on my arm, half-laugh, half-choke. “Lena—”

“She can’t call me Mama, Wes,” I say, voice dropping. “I’m not her real mom. I’m just—”

“Just what?”

My mouth opens for words that won’t come.

“Because if you’re about to say, ‘Just a nanny,’ I will put you over my knee.”

My mouth cracks the smallest smile.

I’m notjustthe nanny. Wes made sure I knew that, and honestly, I haven’t felt likejusta nanny in a very long time.

I’ve felt…well, I’ve felt like a mother.

“What did you expect her to call you, baby? She sees you all day, every day. You feed her, bathe her, playwith her. She’s a toddler. She’s just picking the word that makes the most sense.”

“I just… I don’t want to replace anyone,” I force out, tears threatening. “She has a mother, even if she’s not around.”

He brushes a paint-stained thumb over my cheek. “You’re not replacing anyone. You’re just you.”

Just me.

And being me is enough.

Enough to be her mama.

I bite my lip, tears slipping free. “But what if—?” I start, but he shakes his head, cutting me off.