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I know what’s coming. I can feel it winding its way around my lungs.

“And one day,” she says, “they had a baby girl. A baby with wild curls and the brightest laugh. Everyone called her the little light, because that’s what she was.”

Images I keep locked up start leaking: Amber at the hospital, cheeks flushed, holding a pink-wrapped bundle. Mike pacing, eyes wet. Me promising I’d teach the kid to throw a curveball.

Promises.

Christ.

“But one morning,” Lena continues, softer now, “the princess and the jester had to leave for a journey. And even though they promised to be back before bedtime, they never made it home.”

The air leaves the room. Rosie doesn’t cry, but I do. Quietly. It sneaks up behind my ribs and into my throat.

Lena lays a hand on Rosie’s chest. “But the baby princess wasn’t alone. The brave mechanic prince… remember him?” I swear Rosie nods. “He scooped her up, tucked her under his wing, and promised to guard her magic for the rest of his days.”

My sight goes watery again, but I don’t look away as Lena’s eyes find mine across the room.

“And because this princess is made of magic,” she finishes, brushing Rosie’s curl behind her ear, “every time she laughs, the princess and the jester hear it. And they laugh too, wherever they are. That’s how love works. It echoes.”

The room is a dam about to break, so I clear my throat before it suffocates me. “Hell of a bedtime story, Carter.”

She offers a crooked grin. “Work in progress.”

Rosie toddles over, plops into my lap, and tilts her head back to study me with the exact same eyes her mother used to give me when I said something stupid.

Lena stacks the scattered picture books and gives Milo a lazy ear rub, but she doesn’t rush the silence. She simply sits and waits, as if she has all the time in the world.

Finally, I blow out a breath. “Didn’t think I’d make it through today.”

“You didn’t have to.” She shrugs and gently teases, “You outsourced it.”

“Thanks for that.”

She pushes to her feet. “Anytime.” Then softer, “Every time.”

I watch her walk down the hallway before she disappears downstairs and into the kitchen. The kettle clicks on.

I can almost hear her thoughts from here.

Tea for him, cocoa for the princess.

My cheeks are damp, but Rosie is safe against my chest, and that’s all that matters.

I squeeze her a little closer and decide to let the echoes settle.

Twenty-seven

Lena

I’m halfway into my coat, already mentally plotting my weekend plans.

Step One: Lie face down on the couch and don’t move for forty-eight hours.

Step Two: Repeat step one.

Wes and Rosie recovered from the flu a couple of weeks ago, but the aftermath hit harder than the actual virus. Rosie’s routine fell apart. Bedtimes turned into battlegrounds. Foods she used to devour now caused theatrical gagging. I’m not sure if it was lingering toddler dramatics or some sleep regression, but she resisted everything—naps,baths, peas—with the endurance of a triathlete.

This week, we finally clawed our way back to something resembling a routine, but it’s clear she’s taken both of us down in the process. Wes looks like he hasn’t slept since Christmas. I’m not far behind.