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Magnolia Sebring

The boutique baby store smells of lavender and baby powder.

It’s tucked into a sleepy corner of Sydney, a place with hand-painted signage and a tiny brass bell above the door.

Inside, everything feels soft—washed wood floors, gauzy canopy tents, antique-style bassinets, and stacks of folded muslin blankets in every shade of cream, gold, and sage.

It’s exactly the place I’d hoped to find.

I glide my hand over the edge of a white oak crib, the finish buttery smooth beneath my fingers. It’s carved with enough detail to be special but not so much it resembles a dollhouse prop. Perfectly in-between.

Violet studies the ivory linen swatch in her hand. “So, we’re doing vintage charm and neutral tones?”

I love how she says we .

I nod. “Yup. No pastels. No circus animals. Only soft colors and old-soul energy.”

Violet grins. “How very Magnolia of you—charming, minimal, and just bougie enough.”

I shrug. “It’s a skill.”

Violet holds up a looped wooden ring threaded with soft, clacking beads. “How about this one? Minimal enough for you, or should I go find something carved by woodland fairies and blessed under a full moon?”

I roll my eyes and walk toward a crib mobile hanging above a vintage rocking chair. It’s soft, hand-stitched white wool lambs. One of them has a crooked ear.

I stop, and my chest goes tight.

“Oh boy,” Violet says, coming up beside me.

“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m blinking a little too fast, my voice a little too thin.

Violet slips a tissue into my hand without looking at me.

I swallow and press the tissue to the corner of one eye. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this.”

“Well,” she says, bumping my shoulder, “now you are. So pick a mobile. Or don’t. But I’m not letting you cry in a boutique filled with gender-neutral sheep.”

I laugh. “Fair enough.”

What a difference a year can make. Here we are shopping for a tiny little someone I haven’t met yet but already love more than anything I’ve ever known.

Violet toys with a breast pump, pressing one of the flanges to her chest. “This thing looks like it could suck the soul right out of your body.”

“It does. And then it stores it in four-ounce portions for midnight feedings.”

Violet shudders. “Hard pass.”

She puts the pump back on the shelf and turns to me. “Have you told your mom you’ve created life?”

I pause. Not because I don’t have an answer but because the answer makes my stomach twist.

“I tried,” I say, adjusting a swaddle blanket on a display table. “I called her the day after we got the first ultrasound photo. Left a voicemail. And another one the next day.”

Violet’s brows lift, eyes softening. “She didn’t call back?”

I shake my head. “I assume she’s still furious I wouldn’t give her any money. So no, I don’t think she’s planning to knit booties.”

Violet wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Her loss. This baby’s going to have more love than it knows what to do with.”

I nudge her side with my elbow and keep walking. “It’s fine. I only wanted to tell her because not telling her seems weird. She’s Robin, so I don’t expect a parade. Or even a text.”

We turn into the next aisle, and that’s when I nearly walk straight into Celeste.

She’s holding a small, gift-wrapped box with a satin bow. For a beat, she stares at me like her brain is buffering.

“Magnolia,” she says at last, blinking. “Wow. Hi.”

“Hi, Celeste.” I offer a polite smile. Because what else do I do?

Her eyes drop to my small bump. “You look well. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I say, one hand resting on my stomach. “We’re excited for this little one.”

The awkward quiet stretches between us.

Celeste shifts her weight. “I heard Alex is playing again and is doing really well?”

I nod. “He is. Better than before, from what everyone is saying.”

“I’m glad. I know how much he loves the game.”

Another pause.

“And I also know how much he wants to be a dad.”

My fingers tighten against the swell of my stomach, but I nod. “He does. And now… here we are.”

Celeste smiles—not jealous, not bitter.

“Has Tyson left you alone?”

“He actually has. It’s been peaceful. I think he finally figured out how to be a decent person. Or maybe he just got bigger things on his plate.”

Let’s be honest—if he’s learned how to be decent, it’s only because life forced his hand. He would never leave us alone willingly.

“I’ve been meaning to call Alex. To apologize. But I haven’t found the words yet.”

“You don’t need to. We understand what happened.”

Honestly, we want to move on from this. Alex isn’t interested in an apology.

She breathes out a small laugh, quick and rueful. “Still, it’s something I owe him.”

Then her expression shifts—something unexpected blooming in her eyes. “It’s strange, but part of me wants to thank him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “For…?”

“For breaking Tyson’s hip. Because that led to the cancer diagnosis. And that led to everything else—his mindset shift, the letting go, the freedom. It saved me in the long run.”

“Life’s funny that way. Sometimes karma shows up wearing cleats.”

Celeste laughs, and the tension between us melts.

“I’ve been seeing someone. Only for a couple of months, but he’s kind. Easy to talk to. It’s early, but it feels good.”

I offer a small smile. “I’m happy for you. Hope it works out.”

“Thank you, Magnolia. Early congratulations on the baby.”

Then she nods, gives me a goodbye, and walks away. Graceful. Quiet. It feels like she walked out of my life for good. And I’m okay with that.

I find Violet near a display of impractical chic baby toys.

Her basket is loaded with a teething giraffe that costs more than my wedding shoes, two bamboo swaddles embroidered with constellations, and a stack of onesies that read I Drink Until I Pass Out, I Only Cry When Ugly People Hold Me, Future CEO of Poop Corp. , and No Hair, Don’t Care.

She holds up a stuffed rabbit. “I dare you to look at this and not cry.”

I just shake my head, smiling as I join her. “Is there anything not in your cart?”

“No. And you’re welcome.”

Violet moves on to the next display, pretending she’s not misty-eyed as she smooths the ears of the rabbit. She tosses it and nudges me with her hip. “If I see you buy one more thing in cream or ivory, I’m calling the police.”

I pause, and my hand settles on my belly.

Some things unravel slowly. Quietly. Not with a bang but a breath.

I used to think Violet wasn’t wired for softness—at least not the kind that showed. But lately, I’ve seen it in the way she lingers a little longer over the tiniest clothes, or how she keeps asking about baby names, acting as though she doesn’t care when I know she does.

She’s changing. Not in the most obvious way. And not all at once. But piece by piece, something is blooming in her.

Something tender.