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"The best kind of mess." I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in.

I place my hand gently on her stomach, where our son and daughter are growing, their hearts beating strong and steady. In this moment, nothing else matters—not work, not money, not what other people think. Just this: Tess, me, and the two tiny lives we've created together.

"Thank you," I whisper against her hair.

"For what?"

"For giving me this. For making me a father. For..." I struggle to find the words. "For everything."

I pull her up off the table and hold her tightly. Eventually we make our way to check out, grabbing our ultrasound pictures from the receptionist.

The afternoon sun glints off rows of windshields as we step out of the medical building. Tess clutches the envelope of photos against her chest like they're made of gold. I take Tess’s hand in mine as I walk her to her truck.

I open the truck door for Tess, but instead of getting in, she turns to face me, her head tilted in that way that means she's reading something on my face.

"What is it?" she asks, her voice gentle.

"Nothing," I say automatically, then catch myself. "I mean...everything. I'm just processing."

She doesn't push, just waits in that patient way of hers, giving me space to find the words. A breeze lifts strands of her hair, dancing them across her cheek. I tuck them behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her skin.

"It's real now," I say finally. "Seeing them like that. Hearing their heartbeats. Knowing we're having a son and a daughter. It's..." I trail off, struggling to articulate the storm inside me.

"Overwhelming?"

"Yeah." I lean against the truck, needing the support. "In the best way possible, but still overwhelming."

Tess moves to stand beside me, our shoulders touching. A couple walks past us toward the building, the woman so pregnant she looks like she could have that baby at any time, both of them laughing at something. Soon that will be us, I think. Tess with a rounded belly that can't be hidden, me hovering protectively beside her.

"I'm scared," I admit, the words slipping out before I can catch them. "Not of the babies, exactly. But of...being responsible for them. For shaping who they become."

Tess turns to face me, her eyes searching mine. "That's normal, Charlie. I'd be worried if you weren't scared."

"It's more than that." I look past her, at the distant mountains visible on the horizon, finding it easier to say these things without meeting her gaze directly. "I don't want to be like my father."

The admission hangs between us, more vulnerable than I intended. I take a deep breath and push forward.

"He wasn't—isn't—a bad father, of course. He provided for us, made sure we had opportunities. But he always made me feel like I wasn't enough. Like no matter what I achieved, it wasn't quite right, or wasn't quite enough."

I kick at a pebble on the asphalt, watching it shoot across the surface. "Even now, I still feel like I'm that kid trying to get his approval. And I don't want our children to ever feel that way. I don't want them to think they have to earn my love, or that they're disappointing me by being who they are."

Tess's hand finds mine, her fingers cool against my palm. "I understand that fear more than you know."

I glance at her, surprised by the depth of emotion in her voice.

"I have my own version," she continues. "My parents' divorce was...messy. They used me as a pawn, made me feel like I had to choose sides. There were weeks when I hated them both for putting me through that."

She looks down at our joined hands. "I've always been terrified of doing that to my own children. Of failing at marriage the way they did, of putting my kids through that kind of pain." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I don't ever want to leave our kids emotionally unstable from that kind of fallout."

The raw honesty in her admission hits me hard. Tess carries the same kind of fears I do. Different circumstances, but the same core worry: that we'll repeat the patterns that hurt us.

"Hey," I say, tilting her chin up so she's looking at me. "We're not them. We're us. We're writing our own story here."

She smiles softly. "That's basically what I was about to say to you."

"Great minds," I murmur, drawing her closer. She fits against me perfectly, her head tucking under my chin. "We can learn from their mistakes. We can do better."

"We're already doing better," she says against my chest. "I’m pretty sure my parents never talked about their fears like this. They never tried to understand each other."