Chapter 10
Miles
Brennen's practically bouncing as he shows me the vineyard plans spread across Celtic Knot's tasting room table. "This is happening because Emma believed in me! The expansion starts Monday!"
I scan the blueprints—the adjacent property, new fermentation equipment, expanded tasting room. Emma made the right call voting for growth instead of the corporate buyout.
"She really came through," Brennen continues, gesturing at the plans with his wine glass. "I know it wasn't an easy decision with everything else going on, but she chose family over the safe money. That means everything."
Sophie appears from the barrel room, wiping her hands on her apron. "I knew Emma would vote for growth. She's a builder, not a seller."
"We're thinking Malbec for the new section," Alex adds, looking up from his clipboard. "The terroir is perfect for it."
"Speaking of Emma," Sophie says carefully, "how is she? We know she's pregnant—we figured it out at the exhibition—but the town's still buzzing about her being sick."
I set down my wine glass. "You knew?"
"The pickles. The wine avoidance. The looking green." Sophie smiles. "We're not idiots. How far along?"
"Eight weeks."
"Congratulations!" Alex looks up from his clipboard, grinning. "That's wonderful news."
"Does Brennen know?" Sophie asks.
"He knows. Ryan knows. You two know. Julie found out yesterday. Maggie knows. That's it. The rest of the town still thinks she's dying."
Sophie laughs. "That explains Julie at Seaside Sweets this morning being so excited, like she had a secret to tell but it was killing her not to announce it."
"Emma steered her to the baby section at Target. Julie figured it out."
Ryan walks in, looking every inch the CEO in his tailored suit. "Are we talking about Emma's pregnancy?"
"Always," Brennen says. "Miles just told Sophie and Alex."
"About time. I was wondering when he'd officially let them in on the secret." Ryan pours himself wine. "She looked really happy at breakfast Saturday. Lighter. Like someone lifted a weight off her shoulders."
"Because she doesn’t have cancer," Brennen adds.
"Speak for yourself. I never thought it was cancer."
"You absolutely thought it was cancer. You texted me 'What if it's serious', three times."
"That's different from cancer."
Sophie interrupts. "Can we focus on the expansion? The distributor wants to know our production timeline."
We spend the next hour reviewing plans, discussing wine varieties, and mapping out the logistics. Brennen's energized in a way I haven't seen in months. Emma's vote gave him permission to chase his dream instead of taking the safe corporate money.
My wife made the right call. For her career, for her family, for herself.
She's building something sustainable. Finally.
When I finally head out, Sophie catches me at the door.
"Miles," she says quietly. "If you or Emma need anything, Alex and I are here for you both. Just call."
"Thanks."
"And for what it's worth? I think the work-life balance thing is good. She needed it."
I drive home thinking about Emma's decisions. The merger. The expansion vote. Telling her brothers about the pregnancy. She's been carrying so much alone for so long, and now she's finally letting people help.
It's about time.
At home, I settle into my office to finish wine reviews. Professional obligations don't stop just because you're about to be a father.
Father.
The word still feels surreal.
I pull up my review notes. The Pinot Noir I'm supposed to be analyzing isn't getting analyzed.
Instead, my mind keeps wandering to Emma at eight weeks pregnant, working at Preston, building a sustainable career that won't destroy her while she's growing a human.
I grab my phone.
One quick search. Just to understand the timeline.
"Eight weeks pregnant development"
The results are immediate. Tiny hands forming. Heart beating. About the size of a blueberry. Impossibly small.
I bookmark the page.
Then I search "first trimester symptoms."
Then "when does morning sickness end."
Then "safe foods during pregnancy."
By the time I look up, it's midnight and I've read somewhere around seventeen articles about fetal development.
Emma's asleep in our room. I should join her.
I open a new tab instead.
"How to be a good father"
The results are overwhelming. Articles, videos, forum posts. Everyone has opinions about fatherhood. Some contradictory. Some terrifying.
I start taking notes.
By 2 AM, I've learned that:
Babies sleep approximately 16 hours a day (but not consecutively)
Diaper changes happen 8-10 times daily (possibly more)
Something called a "diaper genie" exists (function unclear)
Babies can't see color until 4-5 months
Tummy time is crucial (purpose uncertain but emphasized repeatedly)
I create a spreadsheet.
"Baby Preparation Checklist"
Crib. Car seat. Stroller. Diapers (cloth vs disposable?). Baby monitor. Changing table. Bottles (types? amounts?). Baby-proofing supplies (everything is apparently dangerous).
At 3 AM, I discover Reddit's r/daddit forum.
It's a revelation.
Real fathers sharing real experiences. Photos of babies doing adorable things. Questions about sleep schedules and feeding routines. Men admitting they're terrified and getting support instead of judgment.
I create an account.
Username: WineCriticDad
I scroll through posts, taking notes. Someone mentions the "fourth trimester"—apparently babies are basically still gestating for three months after birth. Someone else discusses sleep training methods. A third person shares a photo of their baby sleeping in a tiny hammock.
I bookmark everything.
At 4 AM, I'm watching YouTube videos on how to properly install a car seat. Apparently, 80% of car seats are installed incorrectly. That's terrifying. I take detailed notes on LATCH systems and angle requirements.
At 5 AM, I'm deep into a comparison of bottle nipple flow rates when I hear footsteps.
"Miles?"
I look up. Emma's standing in the doorway of my office in her pajamas, hair messy from sleep, looking at me like I've lost my mind.
"It's 5am," she says.
"Did you know babies can't see color at first?"
She blinks. Looks at my laptop. At my phone with approximately thirty-seven tabs open. At the three pages of handwritten notes spread across my desk.
"What are you doing?"
"Research."
"It's five in the morning."
"I couldn't sleep."
She walks over, taking in the screen showing a detailed comparison of diaper brands. "Miles. Come to bed."
"But I haven't researched bottles yet. Apparently nipple flow rate is crucial—"
"We have SEVEN MONTHS."
"Seven months and three weeks."
"MILES."
She gently closes my laptop. Takes my phone and sets it face-down on the desk. Gathers my notes into a neat pile.
"You're spiraling," she says softly.
"I'm preparing."
"You're obsessing."
"What if I don't know what I'm doing?"
"Nobody knows what they're doing at first. That's normal."
"I ran tactical operations in hostile environments. I should be able to handle a baby."
"A baby is not a tactical operation."
"Both require planning and resource management."
"Miles." She cups my face, making me look at her. "We have time. We'll figure it out together. But right now, you need sleep."
"But—"
"Sleep. The baby research will still be there tomorrow."
She's right. I know she's right. But my brain won't stop cataloging all the things I don't know yet.
She takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. "Come on. Bed."
I let her lead me to the bedroom, but I'm already thinking about tomorrow's research topics. Pediatricians. Childcare options. Baby-proofing strategies.
Emma settles back into bed, and I lie beside her, staring at the ceiling.
"Miles?" she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For caring this much. For wanting to be prepared. For being terrified but excited."
"I'm more terrified than excited right now."
"That's normal."
"Is it?"
"Completely normal." She turns toward me. "But we're doing this together. You don't have to know everything by tomorrow."
"I just want to be ready."
"You will be. We will be." She rests her hand on my chest. "But right now, sleep."
I close my eyes, trying to turn off my brain. But all I can think about is car seat installation angles and diaper genie mechanisms and the fact that our blueberry is currently forming tiny hands.
"Miles?" Emma's voice is muffled against my shoulder.
"Yeah?"
"How many parenting articles did you read tonight?"
"I don't want to answer that."
"Miles."
"Approximately a thousand."
She laughs. Actually laughs. "You're insane."
"I'm thorough."
"You're obsessive."
"I prefer 'detail-oriented.'"
"Tomorrow you're taking a break from baby research."
"But—"
"No buts. You're doing wine reviews and nothing else."
"What if there's important information I need—"
"Then it'll still be there the next day." She kisses my jaw. "Sleep. Please."
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close. She's right. I know she's right. But my mind is still running through checklists and timelines and all the things we need to do before March.
"Miles?" She's almost asleep now.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"Love you too."
"Even when you're being ridiculous."
"I'm not being ridiculous."
"You created a spreadsheet at 2 AM."
"That's not ridiculous. That's organized."
She's laughing again, and I'm holding her, and somewhere between her breathing and the darkness, I finally drift off.
Emma's breathing evens out. Finally asleep.
I stare at the ceiling, running through tomorrow's research list. Pediatricians. Childcare options. Whether the diaper genie is actually magic or just marketing.
Seven months and three weeks to figure it all out.
Better get started.