Page 32 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

The door opens again, and the OB steps in with a warm smile and a calm, practiced energy that immediately lowers the temperature in my chest. She’s a woman in her mid-forties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense bun pinned tight.

“Hi, I’m Susan Elkins, your assigned OB,” she says, reaching out to shake both our hands. “Nice to meet you, Penny. And…?”

“Richard Hogan,” I say, standing. “I’m—well, I’m the father. I’m a little nervous.”

She smiles knowingly. “That’s usually how this works.”

I flush. Penny grins behind her hand.

“I’m also a physician,” I add quickly. “Orthopedic surgeon. New to the area.”

“Ah,” Dr. Elkins says with a small chuckle, sitting down and opening her tablet. “So you’re going to be a question-asking nightmare.”

“I’ll try to be respectful,” I offer, sitting back down beside Penny.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m used to doctors being terrible patients. And worse spouses during OB visits.”

Penny chokes on a laugh.

Dr. Elkins runs through the early pregnancy checklist—asking about symptoms, medical history, previous injuries, supplements, nutrition. Penny answers with quiet confidence, only occasionally looking to me to fill in dates or details she knows I’ve obsessively memorized.

Then comes the ultrasound.

Dr. Elkins squeezes warm gel on Penny’s stomach and starts to move the transducer. I sit forward in my chair, heart thumping louder than I’d like to admit. I didn’t expect it to hit me like this—but then, there it is.

A flicker. A flutter. A pulse of motion on the screen.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Elkins says, soft but certain. “Nice and steady.”

Penny lets out a breath she’s clearly been holding.

I don’t even try to speak.

The screen shows something tiny and otherworldly, tucked into shadow and flicker. It doesn’t look like a baby. Not yet. But it feels like everything.

I clear my throat and finally manage, “Is that—what’s the rate?”

“169,” she replies.

“Is that—”

“Normal. Very normal,” she says with practiced patience.

“And the crown-rump length?”

“Measuring at nine weeks and two days.”

I nod, absorbing it all. “Any abnormalities in the yolk sac structure?”

She gives me a long, amused look. “Still normal.”

Penny leans her head against the exam bed and mouths, breathe.

I exhale slowly, wiping a hand down my face.

“She’s healthy,” Dr. Elkins says gently. “And you’re both doing just fine.”

The words land somewhere deep in my chest. Like permission. Like grace.

When the exam wraps up, Penny gets cleaned off and dressed, and we sit together holding the little printout of the ultrasound—grainy and strange and miraculous.

In the truck afterward, she rests her head on my shoulder as I pull out of the parking lot.

“You asked four questions before I’d even sat down,” she says.

“I had more, but I was self-editing.”

She chuckles and takes my hand.

I glance over at her, the picture still tucked between the pages of the intake folder in her lap, and something in me settles.

We’re really doing this. Please, let everything turn out all right. Let Penny be fine and let the baby be perfect.

Please.

Penny’s father answers the door like he was expecting someone but not me.

His eyes narrow just a hair before his posture straightens, the kind of instinctive readjustment men make when they’re preparing for something serious and don't yet know whether they’re about to be thanked or punched.

“Dr. Hogan,” he says, neutral but not cold.

“Mr. Morgan,” I reply, shifting the small bakery box in my hands. “Brought muffins.”

He eyes the box like it might contain explosives. Then, almost grudgingly, he steps aside.

“Hope you brought the blueberry kind,” he mutters as I step into the family home he’s owned for 45 years.

The place smells like fresh paint and new carpet; I know he’s trying to finally move forward and turn a new page on his life, putting his grief behind him as much as he can. Bringing a fresh look to the house is his way of starting that process in earnest.

I can see a yellowed photo of Penny and Jesse on the mantel. Fresh paint can work wonders, but there’s no doubt this is still the family home, the heartbeat of the Morgan clan.

“I did,” I say, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. “Figured it was a safe bet.”

We sit at the old oak table near the window. The silence stretches while he pours two cups of coffee. No cream, no sugar. Just black, hot, and bracing.

“So,” he says, after a long sip. “Let me guess. This isn’t about muffins.”

“No,” I admit. “It’s about Penny.”

That gets me a long, measured look. Not unfriendly—but definitely guarded.

I take a breath. “I came because I want to marry her.”

He sets his mug down, slow and deliberate. “You asking for my permission?”

“No,” I say evenly. “She doesn’t need anyone’s permission but her own. But I am asking for your blessing.”

The silence after that is heavier. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Why?”

I know what he means. Why ask me. After all this time. After all he didn’t do.

“Because I respect her,” I say. “And because I know what it means that you’re trying to be there for her again. You didn’t have to do that. But you did. I figured if you’re showing up for her, I should show up too.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“You left her once,” he says. Not accusing. Just stating a scar that never quite faded.

“I know.”

“She fell apart.”

“I know that too,” I say. “And I hated myself for it. I told myself I was doing the right thing, giving her space, letting her grow. But really I was just afraid. I’ve learned better since.”

He looks out the window for a beat. I don’t push.

When he turns back to me, his gaze sharpens. “So let me be clear, then. If you leave her again—if you break her—there won’t be a second forgiveness. Not from her. Not from Jesse. And definitely not from me.”

I nod slowly. “Understood. But let me be clear. If anyone—you included—tries to push her around, guilt her, or undermine her decisions under the guise of protection, I’ll be the one in your kitchen saying the same thing.”

He stares at me.

Then, to my complete surprise, he smiles.

Just a small one. Barely there. But it’s real.

“Well,” he says, lifting his mug. “Now that we’ve threatened each other, I guess we can move on to the part where you make her happy.”

“That’s the plan,” I say.

And in that moment, the weight between us shifts—not gone, but balanced.

Not erased, but acknowledged.

We sit for another few minutes, talking small things. Work. The town. How Jesse’s been eating too much takeout. I finish my coffee, grab a muffin for the road.

When I stand to leave, he rises too.

“You’ve got my blessing,” he says. “Not that she needs it. But you’ve got it anyway.”

“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it.

Because now I know the next conversation I have—the one that matters most—is hers.

The sun sets around 6:42 p.m. tomorrow. I know that because I’ve checked the forecast twice and refreshed the local park website more times than I care to admit.

October in Mount Juliet can be fickle, but tomorrow promises crisp skies and that golden-amber light that makes everything look softer, like the world’s been dusted in something forgiving.

The Willow Creek overlook isn’t fancy. There’s a simple stone path that winds up a hill, a few picnic tables tucked under a canopy of oaks, and a view of the lake that glows at sunset like it’s trying to remember something holy.

I’ve walked it once with Penny before, months ago, and I remember thinking then that the place felt like it belonged to her—the way she paused to breathe it in, the way the wind pulled at her hair and she didn’t even flinch.

It’s the kind of place that feels like a yes.

I’ve already made a mental list of what to pack. Her favorite deli chicken salad with rosemary crackers. A mason jar of sweet tea—half lemon, because she likes it a little sharp.

One of those caramel apple cookies from the bakery she thinks I don’t know she hoards. Nothing extravagant. Nothing staged. Just her, me, the sound of leaves rustling, and a question I’ve been carrying in my chest since the day she let me back in.

I’m still scrolling through sunset pictures of the park—ones people have tagged online, each one a little different depending on the clouds—when my phone lights up.

Mom.

Returning my call.

I hesitate. Then swipe to answer.

“Hey,” I say, setting the laptop aside. “Good time?”

“We’re just finishing lunch,” she says, the ambient clink of plates in the background. “Your father’s here too. You’re on speaker.”

I stiffen, just slightly. “Okay. I’ve got some news.”

That makes the line go quiet in the way only parents can manage—a silence that makes your throat dry.

“Two things, actually,” I continue. “First... Penny’s pregnant.”

Another pause. Longer.

Then, carefully, “Oh.”

Dad clears his throat. “I assume this wasn’t planned.”

“I think you meant to say ‘congratulations’,” I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

Mom jumps in. “Of course—congratulations, sweetie. That’s… a lot to take in.”

I nod, even though they can’t see me. “It is. But we’re happy.”

More silence. I can already feel it coming, the pivot, the undercurrent.

“Second thing,” I say, trying to stay ahead of it. “I’m going to propose.”

That gets the reaction. Dad laughs softly, that little sharp exhale that never meant amusement. “That didn’t take long.”

The comment makes my hand tighten around the edge of the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“Son,” he says, the calm condescension already sinking in, “you’ve always had a tendency to get sentimental. But you’ve also worked hard to build a reputation, a career. A life. And now this girl from the past shows up, gets pregnant—”

“She didn’t ‘get pregnant,’ Dad,” I cut in, jaw tight. “We’re having a baby. Together. Her name is Penny, and if you’re about to imply that she—”

“I’m saying,” he interrupts, “that people with money have to think differently. That you have to consider whether proposing is an emotional response or a smart one. These kinds of situations—surprise pregnancies, old flames—they can make a man do foolish things.”

There’s a buzzing in my ears that wasn’t there before. I don’t yell. I don’t argue. I just press the red icon on my screen and end the call without another word.

The kitchen goes silent again, the weight of that conversation hanging heavy in the space where my breath should be.

I stare down at the phone, still lit up, then set it face-down on the counter and step away from it like it might bite.

I shouldn’t be surprised. My father has always treated emotions like liabilities—things to be managed, minimized, or scorned. He’s never understood that loving someone isn’t weakness. It’s the thing that makes everything else worth it.

He thinks Penny’s a mistake. A risk. A threat to my reputation.

Which tells me more about him than it ever could about her.

I sit back down at the table, open my calendar, and pull up the weather for tomorrow. Still clear. Still perfect.

My mind settles with new certainty. I’m not proposing because of the baby, or because I need to prove something, or because of what anyone else thinks I should do.

I’m proposing because I love her. Because every minute I’ve spent with her has led me here. Because the life I want is the one we’re building—quietly, imperfectly, fiercely—together.

I pick up my phone again, but this time I don’t hesitate. I text her:

Richard:Hey. Want to go to the park after work tomorrow? Just the two of us. I’ll bring dinner.

There’s a pause.

Penny:That sounds really nice. Everything okay?

I look at her message for a long moment, then type:

Richard:Even better than okay.

Because it is. Or it will be.

Because now, it’s our future.

And I don’t need anyone else’s permission to step into it.