Chapter 23
Callie
Landon’s pacifier falls out just as Pastor Miller starts praying, and Mitch’s left hand finds mine. His thumb presses into my palm, familiar and comforting, like a silent “we’re okay” while we try to pretend we have it all together.
We’re sitting in the back pew, the new normal with a baby who doesn’t always like to settle easily.
Mitch’s boot rocks Landon’s car seat with one foot.
There’s a light blue-and-white baby blanket draped over his legs, a gift from Aunt Mallory.
She crocheted and gifted it to us when she came to meet him.
The sanctuary smells like old wood and coffee from the foyer. The air conditioner hums overhead, fighting a losing battle against the June heat. Morning light spills through the windows, dust floating in lazy patterns that make everything look softer than it really is.
The back door opens, and in comes Charlotte in a yellow dress, hair straight.
Tanner’s behind her, Bible in one hand, Josie’s hand in the other.
She’s trailing behind him, her belly popped now.
She’s due in late October with a girl. Ava.
I’m so excited for her and Landon to grow up together.
Josie and I can become even closer than we already are.
They file in a few rows up, beside my parents. Mom gives Charlotte a big hug and kiss on the head like she’s her grandkid.
When the service ends, the room fills with movement—handshakes, chatter, the smell of sugar cookies drifting in from the hallway where the older women always keep something ready. Mrs. Harper, who sits two pews ahead of us every Sunday, turns around with a grin that reaches her eyes.
“Well, look at him,” she coos, leaning down to peek into the car seat. “He’s getting so big!”
“Three months now,” I tell her, as she brushes a finger across Landon’s tiny hand. His fingers curl around Mrs. Harper’s instantly, like he knows he’s being admired.
It still feels impossible sometimes—that he’s really here. That I’m somebody’s mom now.
It feels like I just went through the grueling labor and delivery of him last week.
He came only a day late, but by then, I was more than ready for him to get out of me.
I loved my second trimester—had that cute little bump just in time for Thanksgiving and Christmas, a good excuse to eat everything in sight.
But by January, I was huge. Mitch joked we were having twins with how big I’d gotten.
I didn’t even take offense. He thought I was adorable.
Mitch was perfect during labor—calm, present, reassuring. I couldn’t have asked for a better man beside me, especially at nineteen. He was gentle in a way that surprised even me.
Once we finally got to the hospital, everything blurred together. It happened fast. I got the epidural, dozed off for a little while, and an hour of pushing later, he was here. Screaming, covered in that white newborn coating, and cold.
I’ll never forget Mitch’s face when he saw him. Completely in love—like his whole world had shifted—but scared too. There were tears in his eyes, and he never left my side. And when he got to hold him for the first time…
Yeah. I don’t even know how to put that into words.
I feel Mitch beside me now, his hand warm against the small of my back. “He’s already outgrowing half his clothes,” he says with a tired smile.
“Oh, they do that,” Mrs. Harper says knowingly. “You blink, and they’re in kindergarten. Enjoy every second—even the long nights.”
“We’re trying to,” I say softly, though my yawn probably gives me away.
When she turns to greet someone else, Mitch’s hand sweeps across my back—slow, grounding—before he steps away to talk to a few of the guys near the side door. I watch him go, that familiar mix of pride and disbelief swelling in my chest.
It still feels strange sometimes—how quickly everything happened. The pregnancy. The baby. Buying our own place. Building a life that feels new and fragile and permanent all at once.
I glance around the room at faces that prayed for us when things were uncertain. People who brought casseroles and baby wipes and Target gift cards. Who told us—over and over—that mistakes don’t define the rest of your life.
They really meant it. And maybe that’s what carried us here.
* * *
The drive home is quiet, the radio low. Landon fell asleep halfway to the truck, his head tipped to the side in his car seat, pacifier stuck in his mouth. Mitch keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee, his thumb brushing back and forth like he does.
We turn onto our street, the road narrowing as trees arch overhead, throwing patchy shade across the windshield. Mitch slows as we pull into the driveway.
I still can’t believe it’s ours. Well…and Macy’s. She and Mitch live in one side, Landon and I in the other.
It’s a two-story brick duplex, It’s a solid and old in the best way.
Deep red brick. White trim we repainted ourselves.
A shared front porch split down the middle by two sets of steps.
Flower boxes hang beneath the front windows, full of green, pink, yellow, and purple wildflowers.
And the grass is finally full instead of half dirt and weeds.
We didn’t redo much—it could use some upgrades—but it’s livable and that’s all that matters.
My parents helped us out a little financially. Mitch didn’t want to take it—said no at first, insisted he could afford it on his own. And he could. Barely. But that didn’t leave much room for anything else.
It took a lot of conversations before I finally got him to understand that it wasn’t charity. That he didn’t owe my parents anything. They wanted to help because they love us. Because they love him. They said it over and over again—no strings, no expectations, nothing in return.
His parents were different.
At first, they talked about contributing something bigger. A couch. A kitchen table. Something practical. But once they found out my parents were helping us buy the house, that changed. Suddenly, a houseplant and a candle felt sufficient.
Mitch kills the engine and sits for a second longer than necessary, looking at the house.
We don’t live together—not because we don’t love each other, but because we’re not married. And because we’re still figuring out what this is supposed to look like. Trying to do the right thing without reacting out of fear or pressure or everyone else’s opinions crowding in.
I want to marry him. I never said I didn’t.
But when he asked last summer, I couldn’t say yes. It felt awful, like I was breaking something delicate. Still, something deep in me said not yet.
I’ll never forget what my parents told me when I admitted how stuck I felt.
How guilty. How scared I was of doing something wrong again.
My mom reminded me that having a baby isn’t a sin.
Babies are gifts from God. The sin was already done—the moment we crossed that line before we were married.
Rushing into vows wouldn’t erase that. Saying I do just to fix the optics wouldn’t make it holy.
That truth settled into me and stayed.
Now Landon’s here. We’re in a rhythm. Sleepless nights. Early mornings. Bottles and laundry and quiet prayers whispered in the dark. And somehow, in the middle of all that ordinary chaos, I feel steadier. Marriage doesn’t feel like something I need to do to fix anything anymore.
It feels like something I want to choose—fully, clearly, without fear.
We still kiss a ton. We curl up on the couch and watch TV like any couple would. We’re still close. Still connected.
But sex? No. That hasn’t happened since Landon was conceived. And it won’t. Not until we say “I do.” That line is clear between us now. Not tense. Not bitter. Just loudly understood.
Mitch grabs Landon’s car seat and I get the diaper bag.
Inside, the house is dim and cool, for now.
The curtains are drawn just enough to keep the heat out.
The first floor is small but open, the living room bleeding into the kitchen, a narrow dining space tucked against the wall with the table we got for free from someone at church.
In the kitchen there’s a sliding door that leads out to the deck Luke and Mitch rebuilt in April.
It’s nothing fancy. Just enough space for a grill and two chairs. It’s something.
Mitch sets Landon’s car seat on the living room floor gently, then kneels down.
“Leave him,” I whisper. “I want to change.”
He nods and stands back up, and I head up the steps.
Upstairs, the hallway is narrow, the floors creaking softly beneath my steps. The bathroom sits at the top of the stairs, then just two bedrooms.
Mine is the first door. Landon’s is the second.
I close the door behind me and exhale, peeling off my church dress and hanging it back in my closet. The room smells like dirty diapers and baby lotion.
I change into shorts and an oversized T-shirt, catching my reflection in the mirror as I pull my hair into a ponytail. A few pieces slip loose. I’d heard about postpartum hair loss, but for some reason I never thought it would happen to me.
I start picking things up—three diapers balled up on the floor from last night and this morning, a spit-up rag draped over the bassinet rail, three empty bottles forgotten on the nightstand.
I turn, taking in the laundry basket overflowing in the corner, and suddenly the weight of everything presses down on me all at once.
The things that need cleaning…a never-ending list.
By the time I head back downstairs, I’ve got the laundry basket hooked on my hip, the diapers and bottles teetering on top.
Mitch is on the couch, Landon awake in his arms, murmuring softly to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My chest tightens in the best way. The stress loosens its grip, the to-do list fading into the background.
Because he’s here.
And today, I don’t have to do it all by myself.
“I can do that,” Mitch says when he looks up at the sound of the stair creak, the same one that always gives me away.
“No, it’s okay,” I say quickly. “Just…be with him. I can get it done faster.”
I don’t wait for him to argue. I’m already pulling open the laundry closet’s bifold doors, already lifting the washer lid—
“Crap,” I mutter.
The clothes inside are still wet. I ran that load yesterday.
I open the dryer. Another load sits there, cold and fully dry.
I shove the dirty basket aside, yank the dry clothes out, and dump them on the floor in a heap.
Then I transfer the wet clothes to the dryer and start it, finally dumping the new dirty load into the washer.
The machines hum to life, and suddenly I’m holding a basket full of unfolded clean clothes I didn’t plan on dealing with today.
“What do you wanna do for lunch, babe?” Mitch calls from the living room.
I freeze for a second, basket balanced against my hip. I had a plan. What was it?
Oh. Right. Pizza. Homemade. Dough that I forgot I should’ve started before church. I knew I was forgetting something.
I groan, tipping my head back.
“What’s wrong?” Mitch asks.
I turn and realize he’s only a few feet away now, Landon resting against his shoulder. I didn’t even hear him get up.
“Nothing,” I say, too fast. “I just— I’ve got a lot I wanna get done so I can be caught up.”
“Okay,” he says easily. “I was just wondering if you had a plan for lunch or—”
“I did,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “But I forgot to make the pizza dough.”
Landon startles at my tone, lifting his head. Mitch’s eyes flick to him, then back to me.
“I was gonna say,” Mitch says calmly, “I could grab hoagies from Dockside.”
“Oh,” I say immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t think we need to spend money on hoagies,” I add, rushing now. “I have stuff here. It’s just not what I planned, but it’s fine. I’ll switch it with tomorrow.”
Mitch watches me for a second, quiet, steady—the way he always does when he knows I’m wound too tight but doesn’t want to push.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Whatever you want.”
I know that he means that too.
He steps closer and presses a quick kiss to my temple. “I love you. And you know, you don’t have to do so much,” he murmurs.
I smile, eyes burning just a little. “I love you too.”