Rosie Waller
Nathan hands me my cup of peppermint tea, then picks up his bottle of beer, and together, we walk through the house.
The kitchen has two islands and a pantry twice as big as the one in Hannah and Maddox’s house. And even though I don’t do much of the catering prep anymore, we still make good use of the space.
We pass through the living room and turn into the den.
Nathan steps past me to open the door to the back deck, and I pause to look at the bookshelves along the side wall.
Next to the framed postcard-sized rose painting is one of my proudest achievements.
The first copy of Rosalyn’s Recipes.
Nathan holds the door open, and I step through.
I plan to do a second book.
Possibly more. But there’s no hurry.
I set my tea down, then lower myself into the chair facing the backyard.
Nathan sits in his chair next to mine.
It’s our ritual.
Coming out here at night.
Sitting on the patio of the house we built together.
Nathan reaches across and rests his hand on my belly.
I place my hand on top of his.
Everything is going to change again.
In three months, our family will grow by one.
And as I sit here, looking at the forest behind our home, I can’t help but hope that our children will want to play in the woods.