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“Alright,” I said. “Let’s throw a party.”

He rose and leaned over to kiss me. Then he booped my nose. “But first we have to tell all our families.

I did groan. “Two parties. This is torture.”

Etienne laughed as he cleared the dishes away.

I never thought breakingworld-altering news to two children would require so much logistical planning. Or baked goods. I had spent the morning writing out the pros and cons of telling Hugo and Lisette at different outings. All typed out on my computer with bullet points. The zoo had potential, but monkeys and elephants could be too distracting. And Lisette always ended up crying about the animals being in cages. That might create a negative association with the baby. An amusement park was definitely not a good place. Too crowded and I might vomit even on a carousel.

“What about a camping trip?” I said seeing potential there. I started to type that one into my document.

Etienne simply closed my laptop and pronounced, “We are taking them to the bayou. With snacks. They love snacks more than they love us, anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong. If you asked Hugo, age nine, to list his top five favorite things in the universe, cheese-filled snack crackers would place above “both my parents” as well as “jumping my bike.” Lisette, at six, oscillated between a fierce loyalty to her family and an all-consuming obsession with anything in the amphibian phylum. The entire Dubois clan had agreed long ago: if you needed to butter up the children, you led with Goldfish and a shoebox full of frogs.

Now, at ten in the morning, I’m huddled at the kitchen island with Etienne, prepping our bribe-based outing. There was homemade lemonade, three kinds of cookies (only one from a store-bought mix, but you can’t tell unless you taste them side by side), and sandwiches wrapped in brown paper and twine like we were in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Etienne wasn’t sure why I had poo-pooed sandwich baggies, but I think the paper was more quaint and memorable.

“Do you want me to carry the lemonade, or the bucket of bug spray?” Etienne asked, propping a sandwich basket on his hip.

“Can you do both and also carry me?” I said, stretching my arms out in what I hope is an irresistible, winsome way. I was tired—whether from pregnancy or my interrupted sleep last night, I wasn’t sure.

He grinned. “Always,chérie.” He gathered up all the picnic gear with supernatural grace, then bent to whisper: “You’re overthinking this. They’ll be happy.”

I snorted. “You think so?”

“They’re still kids. They will care more about catching frogs and eating cookies than about another sibling. Even a magical one.” He squeezed my hand. “You’ll see.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t remember a time when Hugo didn’t rule his little world, and Lisette, despite being the sweet one, had a ruthless streak honed by years of being the “baby.”

The kids were in the backyard when we finally emerged. Hugo hung upside down from a tall oak by his knees, a feat requiring considerable strength and, in his case, a flexible relationship with gravity. Lisette sat below, building a mossy throne for the aforementioned frogs. I called out, “Who wants to go on a picnic and catch some monsters?”

Hugo dismounted with the flourish of an Olympic gymnast, landing on both feet, and yelling, “Me!” before I even finished the sentence. Lisette scurried over, curls bouncing. Within sixty seconds, both kids were racing along the edge of the bayou, headed to the best place to catch monsters—or frogs.

St. James Bayou was not a destination for tourists, and that was exactly why it was perfect. A path winded its way along the water, bracketed by endless cypress. Green water stretched out into the wild, making it feel like stepping into another realm. Spanish moss hung from every limb, and a heron stalked the bank for brunch. There was a dock. A wobbly canoe. It was magical.

We reached our destination and unpacked the lunch while the kids dashed off toward the water’s edge, shrieking at a turtle sunning itself on a log.

“Remember not to get to close to the edge of the water!” I shouted after them, but my warning floated away on the heavy, humid breeze.

I arranged our blanket on a patch of grass, and Etienne sat beside me, his thigh pressed warm against mine. “Look at them. They haven’t even noticed you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. I’m—” I almost said “terrified,” but Etienne is right. They were having the time of their lives, and I should try it for once.

I watched Lisette crouch at the shoreline, coaxing a leopard frog into her palm with the patience of a Buddhist monk. Hugo made a lasso out of twine and attempts to “capture” the turtlewho was doing an admirable job ignoring the overzealous little boy. I was so absorbed in the moment that I forgot, for a second, why we came here.

“Let’s eat,” I said, waving them over. The kids barreled up the grass bank, skidding to a halt at the edge of the blanket.

Etienne finished laying out the picnic and poured the lemonade. They descended on the food like wolves. Which, technically, they were. For several minutes, the only sound was the rabid devouring of peanut butter sandwiches and arguments about who had more cookie crumbs stuck to their face.

After the food, Lisette laid her head in my lap. She was sleepy after filling her belly, but her eyes stayed clear and curious. “Mommy, do you think if I caught a frog big enough, I could ride it?”

I stroked her hair. “Probably not, unless you can get them to eat more protein.”

She frowned, calculating. “What if you used magic?”

“Magic doesn’t work on frogs,” Hugo said with great authority, licking his fingers clean. “Everyone knows that.”

Etienne, to his credit, almost kept a straight face. “That is why witches are still allowed in the Annual Frog Jumping Festival. They can’t rig the games.”