Epilogue
Iwoke to the gentle tap of tiny fingers on the hand that was dangling from the edge of the bed.
I didn’t need to open my eyes—I already knew who it was and what they wanted—but I desperately needed a few more minutes of shut-eye, so I pretended I didn’t feel anything and stayed still.
Sunlight was barely visible behind my eyelids, telling me it was still some unholy hour of the morning. During the weekend.
The tiny fingers moved from my hand to tap my cheek, the movement getting progressively harder the longer I faked sleep. With the reflexes of someone long used to this routine, I snatched the little bundle of energy around his waist and dragged him into the bed and underneath the heavy comforter.
The high-pitched squeal of delight made me smile, especially when a larger but delicate hand reached over and caressed the side of my thigh, immediately making my thoughts wake up and turn filthy.
A flirty chuckle filled the air as the small body wedged itself between us, snuggling into my side and wrapping an arm around my middle.
I leaned down and pressed a kiss against the messy head of dark hair as Summer yawned, cozying up to us.
We had precious seconds before the rest of our entourage made their presence known, so I took a moment and closed my eyes, breathing in the scents of vanilla and mint from the humidifier working overtime on the dresser.
I’d never expected that my life would have taken such a left turn from what I perceived as normal, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Most days, I looked on in a perpetual state of exhausted awe, wondering how I got so lucky.
Sure, the days were long, and the nights were sleepless, but I’d never understand how I could have thought my life was complete before.
A cold nose made its way under the comforter and nudged me until I cracked one eye open and patted the bed. Malibu yipped and jumped, wedging herself on the other side of Summer, who sighed.
“Hot toast, Da,” Martin said, tapping my chest with his index finger.
“What was that, little man?”
“Please, hot toast,” the feisty three-year-old repeated, turning to face his mom when I didn’t give him the answer he wanted.
I tickled his belly and then groaned as a full, warm pull-up squished against me.
“Rock, paper, scissors to see who does breakfast and who does bathroom?” I asked, propping my head on my elbow and looking over my son to face my wife.
“As long as you make coffee, I’ll do whatever you want,” Summer said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
She stretched, raising her arms above her head and teasing me with a sliver of exposed back. Not that she realized she was doing it, but from the day we started dating, I couldn’t keep my hands off of her, and the little miracles that arrived almost nine months to the day later proved it.
I had never given much thought to fatherhood, and even though I knew Summer wanted kids, we both assumed we were too old for it to happen. Morning sickness and several tests later proved us both wrong, and we were so surprised, we’d handed the wedding planning over to our parents without any fuss.
That was more of a surprise than the pregnancy—watching Mom and Cam carry on like an old married couple, arguing about flowers and centerpieces.
Four months later, Summer happily walked down the aisle my brothers had created in Mom’s backyard, proudly displaying her baby bump. And now, we were a happy—and exhausted—family of four.
As if the universe heard my thoughts, I felt the bed dip again as another tiny bundle of sassy energy wiggled her way beside me. She rested her head on my shoulder and giggled as I snaked an arm around her, pulling her close.
We really needed to invest in a bigger bed.
“Hot cakes, please?”
“What about hot toast?” I asked Martin’s twin sister, Rose, who furrowed her brows and shook her head. Watery tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she buried her face into my shoulder.
“No hot toast,” she whined, as my bare shoulder became damp with her tears. “My turn to choose.”
“She’s right,” Summer said, reaching over Martin to tickle Rose’s belly until the tears turned to giggles.
“I know,” I groaned, pulling Rose onto my stomach and turning to face Martin. “It’s Sissy’s turn to choose, Buddy.”
“Okay, Da. But want chocolate milk.”
“That’s a reasonable compromise,” I murmured, sitting up with Rose cradled against me. She wiggled off my lap and waddled toward the bathroom, tugging on her pajama bottoms.
A gentle smack on my shoulder had me turning to the side until my back made a satisfying crack. Martin kept tapping me until I stood up from the bed, holding my arms out to him. He vaulted off the mattress and into my arms, making me grunt and take a step back.
“Okay, wife. I’ll start breakfast and coffee.”
“Strong coffee, babe.”
“Always,” I said, setting Martin down, who tottered to the edge of the bed to pet Malibu.
I shook my head, pointing to the bathroom as Rose flushed and the sink started running. Martin ran forward and gave me a quick hug before squirming out of my reach and running into the bathroom.
“I’ll go start the coffee if you want to remind our son of the importance of aiming.”
“Yeah. Yeah. We’ll have a very manly, very important talk.” I waved my arms and scratched my scruff, blowing her a kiss.
She returned the gesture and swung her legs to the side, grabbing her water from the end table and taking a sip. “Good. Thank you. I remember how your last talk turned the floor into a war zone.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” I winced, remembering the first time Martin followed me into the bathroom and insisted he could go standing up as well.
“Whatever you say, husband.”
She walked around the bed and stopped to scratch Malibu behind her ears before wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head on my chest. We stayed like that until we heard the ceramic thump of the lid being lifted and Martin giggling.
I pulled away, hightailing it after him as Summer laughed, shaking her head and walking out of the bedroom.
Potty time completed, my footsteps echoed in the hallway toward the kitchen. A high-pitched squealing and rhythmic thumping started coming from the laundry room. I groaned, stopping and dropping my head to my chest. Malibu pushed against my legs and trotted to the door, scratching with her paw.
“Do we have to?” I said, rubbing my hand on my chest. “Can’t we wait until after breakfast?”
She yowled, not impressed with my answer as she pawed harder against the door.
“Fine. Fine. Let me at least get the back door open so you can herd them into the backyard.”
Malibu followed me into the kitchen, watching as I opened the back door and ensured that the back fence gate was firmly shut.
I got out the ingredients for pancakes, adding chocolate chips, strawberries, and sausage patties to the counter before an annoyed yip got my attention.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one taking my parenting responsibilities seriously.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I said, heading back to the laundry room, where the noise behind the door had turned earth-shattering.
The door opened barely an inch before a thunderous chorus of tiny feet barreled past me. I stood still, waiting for the stampede to pass before moving, having learned weeks ago that walking with puppies circling my legs was a bad idea.
I peeked into the laundry room and winced at the mess, suddenly very glad Summer had talked me into replacing the flooring.
Malibu pushed her way inside and nudged the youngest pup out the door.
Little Jameson, the runt, was taking full advantage of the rest of the wet food since his siblings had hightailed it out of the room.
I chuckled, trusting Malibu to keep the tiny beasts in line while I cleaned the mess, wondering how my sister-in-law and youngest brother had talked us into fostering four beagle poodle mixes.
There wasn’t much to talk into, I mused, remembering when Summer took Malibu to Feathers and Fur for a checkup two weeks ago and Jenna casually mentioned the abandoned puppies.
I was home on toddler duty when Summer stormed through the front door, teary-eyed, showing me picture after picture of the little floppy-eared, curly-haired weirdos.
Resistance was futile, and three hours later we were the proud foster parents of four mangy pups.
At least I’d be a better foster parent than Mom, who ended up co-adopting Tito and Port with Cam.
After finishing with the laundry room and laying out another thousand pee pads, I grabbed the mixing bowl from the bottom cabinet and turned the back burner on medium to start the sausage. The eggs went first, followed by flour, sugar, and Mom’s secret ingredient—maple syrup.
I chuckled, mixing the ingredients as I stepped onto the back porch, watching Malibu chase the puppies around the yard.
Jack was more interested in eating grass, but the other three were desperately trying to catch her—and failing.
Still, you could see how happy she was having playmates, and a part of me wondered if she needed a permanent one.
It made sense. Even Martin and Rose had started crawling into one another’s cribs before they could walk. Summer and I had long since given up keeping them apart and instead lowered the bars to keep them from injuring themselves until we upgraded to toddler beds.
As if their ears were burning, my twin tornadoes ran past me and scrambled down the porch steps, throwing themselves into the fray while shrieking with laughter.
“I’ll supervise if you want to finish those hot cakes, Daddy,” Summer said, coming to stand beside me and resting her head on my shoulder.
“Did you ever think this is where we’d end up?” I questioned, unable to tear my eyes away from my giggling children in matching shirts.
“Not a chance,” she said, kissing my shoulder and walking toward the patio furniture and sitting down. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
“Not even sleep?” I joked, thinking about how it took the twins three stories, four drinks of water, and two potty trips before they settled down last night, only for us to be woken up by the puppies a couple of hours later.
“Ask me again tomorrow, when I have to get up at five in the morning to prepare for our first-of-the-month conference call.”
“In that case, let me get you that coffee.”
“My hero,” she cooed, waving at Rose, who’d picked up Sherry and was attempting to carry the struggling puppy to their playhouse. “I think your girl didn’t learn her lesson the last time she tried to have a tea party with the pups.”
“Nah,” I said, stepping back inside the house. “She’s just persistent, an excellent trait to have.”
“I’ll remind you of that, love, when she wants to start dating.”
I cringed, not wanting to even imagine that nonsense, and set the bowl on the counter by the stovetop.
A pat of butter went into the pan before I took the biggest coffee mug we had and filled it to the brim for my bride.
Working in the kitchen, with the soft light of the morning sun warming the room and the smell of hot cakes filling the space, a single thought crystallized: the one thing I’d never known I needed was now everything to me. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.