They hadn’t mapped out a future with four little lives orbiting their own. Three already stretched them thin: school runs, late-night fevers, forgotten lunches, and the constant negotiation of who was more exhausted. Yet that faint line on the test landed like a quiet command: make room. In the middle of the noise, something softened. The house didn’t feel too full; it felt suddenly, surprisingly, right-sized for one more soul.
Telling family stitched them closer together. Tears, laughter, stories of their own beginnings turned the fear into something almost holy. When the world finally knew, the pressure he’d carried for years cracked open into relief. He realized he didn’t have to choose between legacy and lullabies. As they folded impossibly small clothes and argued over names, they weren’t just preparing for another baby. They were rewriting who they were willing to become for each other.
