IVAN
Fifteen years later…
"Harold, give Vivian her shoe back now, or you're sitting in the very back of the van with the cooler and Grace's art supplies!"
Iris's voice cuts through the living room chaos, sharp but still somehow musical. She's got Sally's hairbrush in one hand and her phone in the other, trying to confirm directions to Rebecca and Dad's new place while simultaneously refereeing World War III inside our house.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the beautiful disaster unfold.
Lily's braiding Jessica's hair with the practiced efficiency of someone who's been the oldest sister for nineteen years.
Kurt's arguing with Mason about who gets to control the playlist for the three-hour drive.
Grace sits cross-legged on the floor, adding finishing touches to what looks like a crayon portrait of our entire family—complete with our ancient golden retriever, Biscuit.
"Dad, tell Mason he can't play death metal the whole way there!"
"Dad, Kurt listens to music for senior citizens!"
I rake a hand through my hair—more salt-and-pepper now—and catch Iris's eye across the room. She's got that frazzled-but-glowing look, curls escaping the messy bun she threw together this morning, wearing one of my old flannels over leggings that hug hips that have carried eight of my children.
God, she's stunning.
"Both of you get one hour," I say, voice firm enough to end the argument. "Compromise or I'm playing classical the entire drive and making you suffer with me."
Kurt and Mason groan in unison but shut up.
Iris mouths thank you and finally corrals Sally into sitting still long enough to finish her hair.
Twenty minutes later—after three bathroom trips, two forgotten phone chargers, and one near-mutiny over snack distribution—we finally load everyone into our massive SUV.
The older kids pile into the third row, the middle ones squabble over the second, and Grace climbs into her booster seat without complaint because she's figured out she gets the best view for drawing from there.
I slide into the driver's seat. Iris buckles in beside me, already looking tired, and I reach over to lace my fingers through hers.
"Remember when it was just us?" I murmur, pulling out of the driveway as the backseat erupts into another round of negotiations over armrest territory.
She laughs, that soft, breathy sound I've been addicted to since she was eighteen and chewing her lower lip in my passenger seat, wearing my clothes and pretending she wasn't soaking through her panties every time I looked at her.
"You mean when I was terrified of you? When I leaked through your flannel and you blackmailed me into letting you milk me?"
"Blackmail's a strong word." I squeeze her hand, grin tugging at my mouth. "I prefer 'strategic persuasion.'"
"You were insufferable."
"You loved it." I bring her knuckles to my lips. "You still do."
Her cheeks flush that perfect pink, and even after eight kids and fifteen years, she still fidgets with her hoodie string when I make her blush.
"I loved teaching you," I say, quieter now, so the kids can't hear over their noise. "Loved being your first. Your only."
"Ivan—"
"Still love that you're always ready for me. That your body still makes milk, even now." My thumb brushes her wrist. "That you're mine."
She shivers, bites her lip.
"Always," she whispers.
"Promise me more."
"More what?"
"More everything. More years. More chaos. More love."
She leans across the console, kisses my jaw.
"I promise."
I start the engine, the SUV rumbling to life beneath us. Behind me, the bickering shifts into scattered conversation—Harold challenging Vivian to I Spy, Mason already queuing up his playlist, Grace humming something off-key while she sketches.
"Everyone buckled?" I check the rearview mirror, catching Lily's nod as she wrangles the younger ones into compliance.
"Yes, Dad," comes the chorus.
Iris squeezes my hand as I pull onto the highway, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. Three hours to Rebecca and Dad's new place. Three hours of controlled chaos, bathroom stops, and snack negotiations.
Three hours with my entire world packed into one vehicle.
I wouldn't change a damn thing.
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